


we put the faith back in mayhem (it's important to enjoy what you do)

by omegalomania



Series: pray for disaster (when the world is razed we'll still be burning) [3]
Category: Danger Days: The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys - My Chemical Romance (Album), The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys (Comic)
Genre: Animal Death, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Child Abuse, Deaf Character, Emetophobia, Explicit Language, Found Family, Gen, Genderfluid Character, Genderqueer Character, Graphic Description of Corpses, Grief/Mourning, Hard of Hearing Fun Ghoul, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Implied/Referenced Drug Overdose, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Medical Abuse, Nonbinary Character, Nonbinary Party Poison (Danger Days), Nonbinary Show Pony (Danger Days), Not RPF, Origin Story, POV Second Person, Panic Attacks, Platonic Relationships, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, References to Addiction, Suicidal Thoughts, The Fabulous Killjoys (Danger Days) Are Not MCR, Underage Drinking, Underage Smoking, Unreliable Narrator, Withdrawal, internalized ableism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-18
Updated: 2020-08-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:15:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 173,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23202325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/omegalomania/pseuds/omegalomania
Summary: "The Ghoul is laughter and napalm and arsenic. He's long dark hair and an easy smile and skin tanned underneath the unrelenting desert sun. He has a quick trigger finger and an even quicker temper. He has an explosive bent that he sheathes in razors and a predatory flash of teeth that resembles a grin for all but those who know better. He's a rash of bad decisions scraped into a skeleton with black hair and a thrill for the flames, and he fucking loves every second of it. He stinks of cigarette smoke and motor oil and cheap rubber. He's a blister of a kid, a perpetual thorn in everyone's side, but he laughs louder and longer than anyone."
Series: pray for disaster (when the world is razed we'll still be burning) [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1509731
Comments: 102
Kudos: 70





	1. calling it "dumb luck" makes it sound like there's "smart luck" (and that's a dirty goddamn lie)

**Author's Note:**

> This story fits into the broader narrative of this series, but the series does not need to be read in any particular order. The series does not necessarily progress chronologically, but contains multiple stories that nest into one another. Storylines interlock and branch away from each other; you will see the same stories told through different sets of eyes. Everything in this series shares the same universe. Some names, concepts, and characters are of my own design.
> 
> As indicated in the tags, there are a number of content warnings I wish to impart prior to the start of this work. To minimize extra work for AO3's devoted tag wranglers, I will elaborate on those content warnings here:
> 
> This fic contains canon-typical violence, including gun violence, dead bodies, and occasionally graphic descriptions of said bodies. Multiple characters struggle with many of the themes present in canon material already - brainwashing, overmedication, addiction, withdrawal, etc. - and their handling of these topics is not always done sensitively or with kind language. Some characters refer to addicts with cruel and derogatory terms. Some characters discuss gender. Multiple characters are written actively struggling with their own neuroses and a great deal of disordered thinking, and have not been equipped with the tools to recognize or address these mental health issues; their own internalized ableism does warp their perceptions of themselves and of others. These opinions do not reflect the viewpoints of the author, but are the product of the canon environment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Specific to this chapter: Some of the violence in this chapter may be reminiscent of police brutality. This fic contains several scenes in reference to emotional and physical child abuse by a parental figure. While it is not highly graphic, the effects of this abuse are very much felt for a significant duration of this story. This fic contains discussions of medical abuse and substance abuse, as well as brief descriptions of the consequences of medical overdose, most explicitly vomiting. Said medical abuse, while present in the universe of Danger Days already, is more thoroughly examined here. The effects of this medical abuse does lead several characters to demonize the idea of medication, regardless of how and why it is administered, based on warped premises. Self-loathing is a dominant theme, and there are a few brief instances of self-harm. There are some non-graphic mentions of animal death. This fic does briefly touch upon the mindset of someone undergoing a suicide attempt. Said attempt is very brief and non-graphic.
> 
> I will also note that Fun Ghoul, as I write him, struggles with a heavy amount of disordered thinking that features prominently in this work due to how I have structured it. This most commonly manifests in the form of intense self-loathing, as well as disturbing and often violent intrusive thoughts. Some of these thoughts skew toward self-harm and suicidal ideation. This pattern of thought is the result of trauma, overmedication, and the various neuroses that affect him, and he has almost no experience in separating those external influences from himself. In short, you may consider Fun Ghoul to be a highly unreliable narrator; his understanding of reality does not consistently align with reality as it is.
> 
> While foul language has always been present in works set in this universe, I'll also venture a special warning for this one. It contains a lot of it. Exponentially more than the previous two.

****

**\--**

**you clumsy bootlegger.  
little daffodil.**

****

****

\--

You're such a goddamn fuck-up.

These're the kinds of thoughts you get while you thread the wire - _careful_ with it, you little bitch - through to the strain relief and clamp the sleeve down over it. You got the wire-tip all blunted and cut down and shit so that it don't actually snap into the ring that gets plugged into the jack, and _boom_ \- magic headphones that don't blare shitty BL/ind freqs all goddamn day. And the best part is nobody's gonna suspect _shit,_ 'cause you'll be wearing your headphones like you're supposed to. And even if somebody _does_ find out, 'cause someone always does, they'll be all, _oh, wow, what happened?_ And you can just say _oh, I thought they were supposed to work like that,_ and then the blame gets put on the manufacture and not on you, for once. You're _so_ good at fucking up that you can bump the blame of the fuck-up right off your own back. Fuck yeah.

The plug ain't snapping back into the jack. Less fuck yeah. Your hands're a little shaky on account of not having taken your pills since the day you got them, but your hands've been shaky every single goddamn day of your life, long as you can remember. Always had the shakes. Always had the rough nights. Just another one of those fun parts of being _you,_ goddamn fuck-up that you are.

Speaking of _fucking up_ \- plug is _still_ not going back into the jack. God, c'mon. C'mon, c'mon. Could try to force the plug, but that might break the whole _thing_ and then you'll have to _report_ it and then it'll definitely be obvious that you took this shit apart on your own.

Ain't like you set about to figure this out or nothing, all right? You didn't _break_ your goddamn headphones. Like, you didn't break 'em on _purpose._ Just started picking at the knobs and pieces and eventually you figured where those parts would come together and how they'd come apart and then _all_ you did was take it a step further and actually _take_ it apart. Not breaking. Totally not breaking. "Breaking" means it were accidental, and you definitely did this shit on purpose.

Bu god _damn_ it was easy. Maybe if it weren't supposed to get taken apart, they shouldn't've made it so goddamn easy, huh? All _you_ had to do was go plucking through the wires and figuring which ones lead to which piece and how to lever the caps off your headphones and god but if it don't feel so fucking _good_ to peel those layers of plastic composite back and stare at the internals that lay beneath. Naked wires and electronics. Fucking currents and pulses and static. Look at this shit. You can do _anything_. Can figure out how to rewire your headphones so that, _oops,_ now you don't gotta listen to _shit_ that BLi pumps out on the daily. Now you can listen to whatever the fuck you want, and as long as you stay plugged into BL/ind's grid and light up their network of homes and addresses that you know they _definitely have_ 'cause you keep getting in trouble for not being plugged in at the right times, and as long as they don't tap the address you share with your dad, you don't gotta worry about listening to them ever, _ever_ again.

Of all the big long laundry list of crimes you're currently committing (out past curfew, forgetting your meds, not going to school for the past three or four days, maybe? Hell if you remember at this point), this one has to be the biggest and also probably the worst: tampering with BL/ind-manufactured machinery without a license. You're also in the Lobby without much call to be, except that you _wanted_ to be here. Head down here all the time. Why wouldn't you? There's _stacks_ of dead machinery just _lying around_ \- old, decommissioned television sets and busted pairs of headphones, crumpled-up remnants of vending machines that've had their insides gutted. Lobby's the only place with any color in it, even if it's only in dull shades. The neon sign of a hotel, _almost_ flickering in red-orange. A screen advertising droid companionship pricing, in a pale shade of almost-green. 

Most colors're black and white. Static on the many dozens (hundreds?) of television screens lining the streets, piled up on top of each other into these eerie fucking ziggurats of lifeless white noise. Lobby ain't as well observed as the rest of Battery City, missing shittons of the wall-mounted cameras that haunt every street and corner of all the proper districts. But it's got a fuckload of screens to make up for it. Whatever. Screens can't see shit. If you can handle the dark and the clutter and the rusty, tinny sounds of droids begging for plus and parts, it ain't half bad.

The droids're the worst bit. Not the living ones. The dead husks of obsolete models and discarded units that lie piled on top of each other in heaps, like they all crawled into one place to lie down and die together.

You ain't supposed to be here 'cause you don't technically _live_ in the Lobby. You're more like, like Lobby- _adjacent,_ living on the very edge of the Ritalin District. Just happens to be in easy access, and it's the best place to go if you're a little freak with a death wish. Maybe the Lobby don't have any of the fancy as shit hovering cars that the richest folks in Bat City do, but the kids in the Lobby got access to all sorts of shit to compensate, like music. Nothing like the broadcasts BL/ind pumps in neither, all their sanitized and perfectly timed shit. The kids in the Lobby've got _real_ music. They can get you shit that you can plug into your headphones instead of BL/ind's ordinary dumbed-down broadcasts and whatever, 'long as you got the c's for them. One of these days you'll save up for something _real_ good. 

'Course, the Lobby's also a good place to be if you wanna lay low from the exterminators and the dracs that prowl the streets trying to get wayward rats like _you_ back to their neat and tidy little homes. The Bat City slums are so rundown that most patrols don't even bother. It's like they accepted that this patch of Bat City would always be riddled with gangs and broken droids preaching the edicts of Destroya and people who deal in knockoff meds and cigarettes and a million other illegal things, so they gave up on trying to maintain _order_. Settle for making sure that the vermin of the Lobby don't hemorrhage into any other districts, and doing the occasional round-up or suppressing sweep when it suits them. 

You been off the map long enough that you already know it's gonna be straight back to re-education once they find you. Better make sure they don't. Gonna make _damn_ sure they don't.

The plug snaps into the headphone jack and then all you gotta do is loop the things up over your ears. Look at you, so _nice_ and rule-abiding, listening to your dumbass BL/ind drivel, or whatever. Always hated the design of these things. The headphones are big and bulky and clamping them over the sides of your head shuts out the noise completely, so it kinda makes it hard to tell if anyone's coming up behind you, and that's how the draculoids find you.

You bite one of the fuckers when they grab you, but it don't stop them. Nothing stops them once they get their hands on somebody. Don't matter how you scream or struggle or yell, 'cause ain't nobody's coming for you.

Nobody ever does.

****

**\--**

****

**i watered you with an ocean  
and you plucked one little vein?**

**\--**

Whatever, though. All pretty much routine by now. You run away, you get roped back, they kick you into re-education, and then once you get out your dad gives you shit for running around like some halfwit Juvie Hall. _You think you don't need me?_ says your dad, every goddamn time. _If they put you in Juvie, I'm not coming for you._

Yeah, no shit. Like he was ever _gonna._ Like he's anything but a fucking - _focus._ Focus, motherfucker. God. Come on.

You're in the same room they always stick you in. Or one just like it. Can't tell if it's the same exact room or if they have dozens or maybe hundreds of identical rooms like this one. They always toss you at the Standard Services department like it's nothing. Every district's got one. It's where they do all their bleaching and educating and whatever. You're just a kid, so you don't merit fancy shit like handcuffs or whatever, but the door's locked and the walls're white and there's a chair and a table and you're gonna get a doctor sweeping in here any minute and saying stuff like _how are we feeling today?_

They always act all nice about it. Though maybe "nice" ain't the right word. They just...they don't get _mad_ at you. They don't yell at you. Kinda wish they would, 'cause that's at least a language you understand. The _only_ language you understand, aside from the feel of fists and feet battering your ribs and cracking your jaw. But no. They talk to you and they keep their words all even and precise and they _don't_ call you a fuck-up, they _don't_ threaten to dump you into Juvie Hall. They only say neutral shit like _let's try this again_ before they run the same battery of tests they always do. Play certain videos, show you certain pictures of things, study how you react, ask how they made you feel. Put you through the same gamut as always.

Bunch of liars, is what they are. As if you need people holding your damn hand, pretending you're something you're not. And you _know_ what you're not. 

You're not a good kid.

Good kids don't get shunted into re-education programs every other week before they've turned nine. Good kids don't get put on new and untested drugs designed to cool tempers and shut down "unwanted impulses" - gotta love the fancy, pretty speak they use to dress up the fact that you're all fucked up in a way they can't fix. Good kids don't spend an extra hour after school in detention for kicking Skyler Palmer in the fucking face, or for biting Sean Rockwell on the ear 'cause he kept kicking your chair, or for breaking Cary Li's nose for no apparent goddamn reason. Good kids don't laugh when they get their own noses broken in return and taste their own blood when their teeth cuts into their inner cheek. 

You're a bad fucking kid. You know it. Your dad knows it. _They_ know it too, the docs responsible for fixing you, but they keep acting otherwise. Keep pretending that they can turn you into something new with their pills and their video recordings and their, uh, whatever they call them. Their _behavioral remedies._ Those're the words. Big words, long words, complicated words that you probably shouldn't get because you never go to school and you barely pay attention to it as is, but you've heard _those_ words often enough to know what they mean.

Behavioral remedies, better known as "shit that's supposed to fix you."

Behavioral remedies get you dosed up with different levels of medication meant to suppress and reduce your _emotional output,_ is how they all say it, those BLi doctors slicked up pretty in white. None of it fucking matters. Mostly, guess what, hey! It just makes it all worse! Sometimes the chalky pills they make you swallow make your shoulders shake and your teeth chatter, sometimes they make the world go blurry and gray, sometimes they make it so that you blink and the whole day's buzzed by and you can't remember any of what happened in it. They time the sounds you're supposed to get beamed into your headphones and what plays in your ears while you sleep and they give you different freqs to listen to and different shit to watch on the TVs and it don't make any goddamn difference 'cause it's all fucking noise and it bleeds in one ear and back out the other. You hear that goddamn Mousekat song _one more time_ and you're gonna claw your goddamn headphones off, _fling_ 'em at the wall - !

So that ends up breaking them. Shocker. None of this is how you're supposed to be fucking acting under their watch, so after days and _days_ of you fucking failing to get any _better_ in any demonstrable way they turn you loose with a new jumble of prescriptions and new set of freqs for you to tune yourself into and it don't fucking work 'cause it _never_ fucking works and then you get shuffled back to re-education _again_ and they'll change your prescription _again_ and it starts all the _fuck_ over again. It's all the same fucking routine.

One day they'll find the right fucking magic formula that'll turn you into their peak, ideal citizen. Someone _calm_ and fucking _productive_ and easy to control. Someday they swear they'll find the right combo of frequencies and pills and your brain'll finally settle down and behave the way they want it to, 'cause they don't want you to be a shivering goddamned wreck in the corner of a monitoring ward, or a batshit freak smashing a garbage bin down one of their immaculate streets, and they _especially_ don't want you fucking off into the Lobby again and again and again.

Bad fucking news for them, 'cause you're pretty much only good at doing the opposite of what they want. You kinda wanna wish them luck in this endeavor in making you all perfect for their nice clean city. Really, you do, 'cause living like this is a fucking nightmare. Like, you cut your own hair once so that your dad wouldn't give you shit for growing it out like a _goddamn girl_ (his words), and _then_ you did such a bad job at it that the next day at school Mary Solano said that you looked like a wet rat, so you pulled _her_ hair so hard that she screamed in the middle of math and you got put in re-education _again._

So, you know, nice to know that even when you're trying to do a nice thing, you're only ever any good at fucking it up. A smarter person would pick up on the fact that maybe that's the universe trying to give you this big cosmic sign that you ain't a good kid and you'll never be a good kid and you shouldn't bother trying. But you ain't _smart_ either. Like, you gathered that already from how shit you are at keeping your grades up, but your dad wastes no time in telling you that either, when he remembers to acknowledge you.

Look, he's got a lot on his mind. He's a busy guy. He does important work, _probably,_ so that completely justifies that he only talks to you to tell you to shape up and yell at you to get the fuck back to bed before anyone realizes that you're up past standard BLi bedtime ordinances and to stop lazing around the house and be productive. Like a good little kid. Takes him a while to pick up on the fact that you ain't anything of the sort and you never will be, but your dad's always been a _bullheaded_ motherfucker. Supposedly he's where you get it from. Wouldn't know if you got it from anyone else though, 'cause you never known any other parental figure in your life. If you had a mom, she's long fucking gone. Maybe she took one look at you and decided she didn't wanna have to deal with you and, really, who could fucking blame her? _You_ can barely deal with you half the time. All the time.

Dad don't talk about her. But Dad don't talk to you at all if he can help it. You've given up on asking him questions.

You've been sitting in this glorified prison of a monitoring room for what? Thirty minutes? An hour? Feels like it, but there's no clocks or shit in here. All you know is that sitting alone with your thoughts is a more effective torture than anything BL/ind could cook up with their prescriptions and video feeds, and you been sat in the corner of the room for _way too long_ , jiggling your foot back and forth and staring at the wall and biting your cheek until you taste the chemical copper of your own blood. You're not _trying_ to think of how fucked up you are, but everything comes back to that eventually. You're trying to think of nothing - _fuck!_ You're trying, you're really, really _trying_ here, Jesus. Trying to be calm. Trying to relax. Relax. Relax, motherfucker. You can pass the time a little by imagining what it'd feel like to strip the skin off your face, if you could dig fingernails into your cheek and just _scrape_ it all away - 

Stop it, stop it. Quit doing it for _real,_ freak. Sit _still._ The fuck is wrong with you?

Okay, okay. It's okay. You're fine. Sit still. You're good. Just gotta take a couple deep breaths and - _stop moving._ Sit still, you little bitch. You fucking freak. You goddamn _nightmare._ Okay? Okay? Okay. _Okay!_ God. You're sitting still. So _stay_ like that this time. Fuck, okay? Stay _still._ Stop thinking. Think of nothing.

How the fuck do you think of nothing?

_Shut up. God, shut up, shut up, shut up._

They're gonna hear you if you keep this up. That what you want? That what you want, motherfucker?

Shut up. Just shut up.

Just breathe and - 

And then the door swings open.

In come the docs. Don't recognize these ones, but it don't matter much anyway. All you gotta do is get ready for your next round of tests or whatever the fuck. 

You get all the usual questions first - _what's your name how old are you how long have you been off your prescription do your parents know you're here_ \- but you don't gotta answer any of them. No matter how many times they ask you these questions, your answers never change, so why the fuck do they keep asking you? 

They already got all their answers. You don't gotta say a word anymore. Eventually the doctor conducting today's interrogation sighs, flips papers over on their clipboard, and starts writing something down. Boy oh boy, can't wait for _this_ week's fancy pill. Wonder what it'll be? Something you're supposed to chew? Something you need to have injected, maybe? Yeah, your fucked up excuse for a head probably makes for great justification for these pricks to do whatever the fuck they want with you, 'cause at this point you're not sure they're even trying to make you _better_ anymore. You been pumped full of so many different handfuls of pills and different flavors of drugs that you've lost count, and no matter what they try, it don't fix any of it. All it does is make everything _worse._ They can't get you to behave, they can't get you to pay attention in class, and they _can't_ get you to quit laughing like some kinda monster. Is that on your paperwork? Is that in your _file_ that you _know they have?_ God, you hope it is. Bet it's written in careful, black ink, under the list of _shit nobody needs to know about_ , right next to the fact that you wet the bed 'till you were seven: _"laughs like a goddamn lunatic."_

Of all the things about you to hate, that's probably the worst. Can't shut yourself up when you start and can't tell when it's gonna happen. You get all this sound bubbling out from the back of your throat and it bursts out like rot, like mud, like the fucking _filth_ you are. You laugh. You laugh and laugh and laugh and you wanna shut yourself up but you never fucking can and neither can any doctor that's ever asked you about it.

Fuck if you know why you do it. Fuck if _BL/ind_ knows, and they're supposed to be the _doctors_ here. If there was ever any proof that there's something deeply and horribly wrong with you, that'd be it, 'cause who the hell _laughs_ at the kind of shit you laugh at?

You laugh when you're bleeding from your nose on the ground for calling Cyrus Russi a pig bastard to his face during history, and you got no clue why. When your dad teaches you the taste of your own teeth behind the house because he had to drag you outta the Lobby after his shift at work, you laugh in his face and spit blood on the ground and he almost chokes you to death against the chain-link fence running out in the back. You laugh at Mei Aoki when you break her arm during lunch 'cause she tries to steal your backpack, and you laugh when you get stuck in after school detention for it. When a Lobby rat breaks _your_ arm 'cause you don't have any carbons for him to pinch, you curl up on the ground like a dying thing and laugh yourself fucking _sick_. You laugh when the BLi re-education doctor asks you if you ever gotten your blood drawn before, and _then_ because the doctor takes your high-pitched titter to mean "absolutely, I love having giant goddamn needles stuck underneath my skin so they can sap me dry," you spit up chunks of vomit all over those spotless white floors and your sight goes spotty and you can't walk for half an hour afterwards. Really, got nobody to blame but yourself for that one. Be nice to quit being such a fucking freak for once.

Would that you could. Once you figure that out, you'll get down to acting normal, fucking _pronto._ That's slang they got down in the Lobby. _Pronto._ Your dad likes to give you shit by saying that you could get done in Juvie for going there too often, if the dracs decide that you're no better than the scum that live there. Like _hell._ You and him both know they can't legally stick you there 'till after you turn twelve anyway. 

But, hey, who could blame you when the people there are so much more goddamned _reasonable?_ Like, they'll still fuck you up, but at least in the Lobby they do it for reasons that make _sense,_ like you not having any sugar for them to nick or you looking at somebody the wrong way, and not for stupid arbitrary shit like your weird hair and your constant fidgeting and the fact that you laugh at _everything._

Getting distracted again. Focus. Fucking _focus._ Can you do that, motherfucker?

The re-education docs take down all your physical symptoms and whatever. Blood pressure (too high), weight (too low), height (too low), and everything else besides. Makes your guts wriggle like bugs to have their gloved hands darting all over you and steering you in places but you fight back and it'll just make it worse, 'cause you done that before and gotten an extra few days stuck here in compensation. Sit still. Grin and fucking bear it. Can't handle that? Too bad. Suck it up. _Deal._ You've had worse. You've had way worse.

Can't help but wonder how much money the docs here have funneled into figuring out why you _laugh_ at pointless shit, 'cause far as you can tell, they're about as in the dark about that as you are. They can't fix it. Can't medicate it away. They can't quiet it, and you can't tamp down the noises you make, the noises you _hate_ more than anything else. It's disgusting. God, _you're_ disgusting. You fucking _freak,_ god. 

And here you thought BL/ind was supposed to fix everybody. They smooth all the bumps, they square all the corners, they straighten all the curves. Supposed to make you good and healthy and productive. You're supposed to be _having a better day_. Instead you're shuffled in and outta audio treatments and you're handed different medications and none of them do what they're meant to do, 'cause nothing mutes the jitters that make you incapable of sitting still, or the bizarre urge to laugh at all the wrong times. They can't fix you, you hear over and over again. From your doctors, from your classmates, from your teachers, from your dad's constant running commentary on what a mistake you turned out to be. They can't _make you Better,_ like you're meant to be. You just ain't any good at being _Better._

But, hey, there's a bright side. Always got a bright side. You might not be good at anything _else,_ but you're good at being a complete little shit. You ain't any good at being a bad kid in the regular way. Nah, you're better than _anyone_ at being bad in a whole _new_ kinda way.

You get outta re-education a week later with a new prescription of _three_ different capsules you're supposed to take twice daily, and also a brand new pair of headphones 'cause they said that your last pair was all broken and you gotta be _extra_ sure to set 'em to the right frequency tonight, all right? Nice of them to give a shit, but they don't really. Don't matter. You'll fix this pair once you get back home. Sure thing.

Kinda wish you'd climbed in through the window when you get back, but the apartment you're mandated to share with your dad is second story and it's broad daylight, so you'd definitely be spotted by the neighbors and probably get sent back into re-education or something. Don't fucking matter.

Your dad's gonna give you so much shit.

There's a dog on an old bathmat in the kitchen when you enter. That ain't so weird. What _is_ weird is that nobody's around. For sure, right? Yeah. Don't see nobody. You drop your backpack, quiet as you can even if it still rattles your new meds and your headphones clatter to the ground beside it, but nobody yells at you so you can sit down on your haunches and stretch out a hand to the dog that's now watching you with pitch-dark eyes.

It's small, probably still growing. Its coat is black and tan, all thick hair and pointy ears and narrow muzzle. Its tail is a plumy stick of bristles and it starts to wag at once. One of its legs is at a pretty awkward angle. Bet that's why it's here.

"Hey, pooch," you whisper as the dog stretches out its neck to sniff at your hand with its soft, dark nose. Not often that your dad brings his work home. 

"Don't touch it." Oh, and speak of the fucking devil. You can feel his glare on the back of your neck for half a second, and then he's digging into the kitchen cupboards.

Should've figured he'd be waiting for you. Actually, nah - feels like that's giving him too much credit. More like he's back from work and didn't bother to adjust his schedule to pick you up, 'cause why the fuck would he? Never has. Why change the habit?

"You're late," he says.

What's he expect? You been gone a week. He even realize that?

"Got m'new pills." Ain't an explanation and it also ain't an excuse. You say it like he weren't the one to start talking.

"I _heard."_ He manages to sound disdainful and disgruntled and dismissive all in one go. He finally fucking looks at you for that. You've got his eyes. Dark, subtly tapered at the edges. Ugliest peepers in the world, just 'cause they're his. "How many times does that make it now?"

You don't got an answer to that. What, he expect you to keep track? Shrug.

"What's the point in paying for the damn things if you don't take them?" he snaps. Think he can scare you? Please. His anger's only gotta bite when he can follow it up with his fucking backhand. Right now he's all faded, muted down the way everybody in Bat City is. And people ask you why you like dicking around in the Lobby so often. "God, you think I need this right now? Go to bed."

Should kick him in the teeth. Should get a knife from the kitchen drawer and _stick_ him, run him through, see whether he can still make you feel like shit while he's bleeding out on the fucking _floor._ See how he likes it. See how he likes getting his throat ripped _out_. Maybe you could get your hands in there and _tear_ it the fuck apart.

You keep your eyes shut and you can almost see it happen. Can almost feel it, blood and gristle under your fingertips.

"I won't repeat myself," says your dad, like he don't do nothing else but repeat himself.

Your heart's beating too fast. Can't do nothing but listen, 'cause your heart's beating way too fast.

He's emptying a can of PowerPup into a bowl for the _dog,_ but you? Nah, you can get fucked. No dinner for delinquents! Re-education feeds you some of that plain-ass protein pill shit, tasteless blocks of stuff that sit like sacks of bricks in your guts and god _damn_ if those ain't the most uncomfortable shits in the world. So like, you won't _starve_ or nothing you guess, but it fucking sucks. But whatever, right? You know better than to expect anything else from dear old dad anyway.

You go to your room and stick your headphones into the wall-jack so that BL/ind thinks you're listening to whatever freqs they got running tonight, whatever freqs they got running _special_ for fuck-ups like you. Don't bother. You don't gotta listen to shit. You can hear the TV on downstairs. Every household is required to have one so they can get any visual broadcasts that BL/ind wants sent out. No off buttons, though. No on buttons either. They switch on and off remotely. It's kinda fucking fascinating, but you're pretty damn sure that if you start taking apart one of the BL/ind-issued televisions, they'll _definitely_ send you off to Juvie. Only reason they haven't is 'cause you're too little. Only nine. Not even. You turn nine in...what is it, November? Yeah. Something like that. Only way Bat City celebrates a thing like that is with a brand new checkup so they can get a peek at your brainwaves and make sure everything's acting like it should, and that's every other day of your damn life already.

Bed's still unmade. Room's still a mess. Gotta closet full of shit you've pinched from backpacks and picked from the Lobby alleys: pairs of busted headphones, chunks of scrap metal that look like they'll give you tetanus just by looking at them. You can already tell that your dad ain't been in here since you got yanked off the streets of the Lobby, 'cause none of your shit's missing. He don't like you tampering with all this garbage, but you're pretty sure he don't like anything. Don't even like the dogs that it's his _job_ to give a shit about, you bet.

Your backpack gets upended unceremoniously onto the discolored rug of your bedroom floor. Crumpled-up sheets of long-overdue, unfinished homework assignments, a battered calculator, chewed-up pencils and pens that've lost their caps and, in one case, burst open and left dark, shiny stains all on the bottom of your bag, litter the detritus that already swarms every square inch of the place. Wading through the trash and shit, you pick out the three brand new bottles of meds the docs all prescribed to you, one after another. Little bicolored tablets of white and gray and black in varying shades.

The lightbulb above your bed flickers. You collapse backwards onto your rumpled sheets, ignoring the telltale squeak of a busted mattress spring, and hold up each of your new bottles to the light. You watch the pills all click and roll against one another. Little round handfuls of numbness or chills or shakes or a million other side effects and symptoms that won't do a thing to make you better, 'cause nothing ever does.

Squinting at your new meds gets old fast. They join all the rest in the bottom drawer of your desk, heaped high with mostly-full bottles of all the prescriptions that won't never do a thing for you.

God, you gotta get outta here. You gotta get outta here - no. No, no, you gotta lay low for a minute. Keep your head down. Just for a minute. Just for a minute. Can you do that for a minute? Yeah, you fucking lunatic, just sit still and take it slow for a day, a day or two, so nobody goes climbing up your ass, all right? Can you do that? Can you do that, motherfucker?

God, but you wanna get outta here. You wanna get outta here _now._

No, _no._ Fuck. God. Calm the fuck _down._ You know how this works by now, yeah? You gotta let 'em think they've got you. So they don't figure out when you're missing. Your dad won't notice shit. He never notices shit. It'll be teachers and whitejackets and dracs that'll see you, and they can't see you sneaking out the day after you're sent home. You know the rules. You know the rules. Shut the fuck up and sit the fuck down and stop it, just _stop._

But you think you're gonna go fucking _insane_ if you stay up here for one minute _more_ , for _one_ goddamn minute more. You wanna claw off your own skin. Your jaw's like a steel trap, clenched so hard it _hurts._

Maybe you _should_ take the pills. Take 'em all and see what happens.

Yeah, right. Your dad won't even notice if you end up puking blood into the shower or something. You know what happens after a thing like that. Kids in the Lobby see their parents OD all the time, and not all of them can get BL/ind emergency services to help out either. Why would they? Ritalin Rats ain't _people_ to them. Half of 'em are orphans 'cause of shit like that. You seen it happen once, or you seen it just after it happened. Couple of whitejackets hauling some bedraggled lady out of her shitty, rundown apartment, the front of her shirt all stained with sick and her eyes bloodshot and rolled up.

Like that'd be so bad. 'Least then your brain would shut the fuck up and stop running you around in fucking _circles._ Can you imagine it? Can you just fucking imagine it? A moment in time when your brain finally shuts _off_ and everything gets to fucking _stop?_

Why don't you?

Could make it easier. It'd cheer your dad up, probably. Maybe? You dunno. Never seen the fucker happy. _Fuck_ him anyway, though! Bastard's never done a single thing for you in his life. If you get real fucked up on pills and vomit your stomach lining all over his fucking bathroom floors, that means the last thing you ever do will make yourself a real big goddamn inconvenience for your piece of shit dad, and you know what? Fucking good. It's the least you can fucking do, right?

Yeah. You know what? Yeah. Why not? Why the fuck not? You can do it. You're gonna do it. Fuck him up one last time, on the fucking house! Got enough pills to carry you through. Why don't you take all those new meds, just like they was prescribed?

Gonna laugh yourself sick while it happens, while your body shuts the fuck down. Trip to the bathroom, and...

And fucking _shit,_ but trying to swallow a handful of pills really fucking _sucks._ Your throat closes up and you gag when you start to snicker and then your dad finds you retching into the bathroom sink and he tells you to get the fuck back to bed before anyone hears you and reports you to the dracs for missed bedtime ordinances. You wanna tell him to go fuck himself but instead you kinda puke all over his shoes. That's pretty funny, though. Less funny when he grabs you by the back of your shirt and drags you back to your room his own damn self, but you can hear him swearing about the shit on his feet, and _that_ swings right back around to goddamned hilarious.

Don't manage to fuck yourself up that badly, but you don't get much sleep either. Your mouth tastes like chalk and _god, fuck fuck fuck fuck_ but death would've been so much better than spending hours dry heaving into your fucking blankets. They're gonna stink for weeks, you bet. Never gonna get the reek out of them.

Don't manage to get the reek outta your hair neither. Next day at school, Aric Lang keeps pointing out that you _smell_ and while it don't get you sent to re-education for another week, it makes it easy for everybody else to join in on treating you like you've got some kinda disease. Plus side to all this is that you're getting real good at projectile vomiting onto people's shoes. You pay Aric back in kind when he tries to get back at _you_ for stealing his calculator last month. That gets you pretty fucked up when he nearly breaks your nose and takes a chip outta your right incisor, but hey. Takes some of the sting outta tonguing the nick in your tooth and having to spend the rest of lunch trying to mop up the red leaking down your face with paper towels in the bathroom.

Stained those spotless white kicks of his a pasty brown in one try. Ten points, motherfucker.

Totally fucking worth it.

****

**\--**

****

**downed a couple bottles of pills  
and got yourself carted off to the ER?**

**\--**

People down in the Lobby know you by sight. You been there often enough. Been in and outta the place since you were, what? Five? Six? Something like that. They know you can handle yourself. The Lobby's the best place for a piece of shit like you to be, 'cause everybody else here is just as low and unwanted. Battery City don't want 'em, but can't kick 'em out 'cause then they might join the Wars happening just outside the city. Nobody really talks about the Wars, mostly 'cause they ain't really allowed to. Don't hear much about them. Some of the kids in your class say there ain't even a war happening at all, but the teachers shut those rumors up real quick. Consensus in the history books is that there's definitely a war, definitely a _War,_ but that kids like you definitely don't gotta worry about it, which has _suspicious as hell_ written all over it. Most everybody shuts the fuck up and lets the teacher get her way after that. Maybe you're the only one who knows different. Maybe 'cause you're the only one who's this fucking crazy. More likely it's 'cause you're the only one who's taken thirty million different types of pills and none of them've worked.

Everybody in the slums down here, they're just as fucked up and broken down as you are, and that's why they don't look at you funny. It's where all the poors end up. No Inner-Internet here, no fancy-ass floating cars, no holo-phones. Down here the people rob each other for change and get into fights for scraps. You ain't the only kid running around picking shit off the dead and the dying. The real trick is getting to the good shit before anyone else does, the shit you can smuggle back to the house and take apart just to see how it all works.

The Lobby's a wreck. Full of broken down bots and husks of old service units. The ones that still have a charge beg for c's to trade for plus or new batteries in their rusted, tin-drum voices. It's pretty brutal. The ones that're all busted up and long dead, they can make for easy takings. No different than looting a body, and you done that before too. 

Down here, it's everybody for themselves. You slink on into the ass-crack of Battery City and nobody pays you no mind. Just how you fucking like it. No eyes on you. It's like you're invisible. Like being at the house, _ha._ Somebody's groaning on the ground near an old dumpster while a kid your age digs around in their pockets. Can't tell if the poor bastard's hungover or dying or what. In the shadow of a couple housing units, you can see some teenagers trading fistfuls of carbons for bottles of round yellow capsules.

Nobody in the Lobby deals in BL/ind's drugs. It's all off-brand, knock-off shit. Homemade pills that trip people out and make them giddy as shit, or smoking coffin nails. Couple months ago you saw a guy selling a bag and some hollow plastic tubing full of something real fancy and just as pricey to match. Never saw him again after that.

Play it safe. Play it _careful._ You ain't no stranger to getting all rehabilitated and shit, but it takes _forever_ and that's more time you could be spending digging around in the grunge and grime of the Lobby, getting up in the _real_ dirt.

You get fucking _lucky_ this time. First trip back into the slums after re-education number whatever-the-fuck, and you _score._ You find these _monster arms,_ these big green things you can wear on your hands like gloves, except they're bigger and all _clawed._ You stick them on and they're stupidly big on your tiny kid hands but maybe that's kinda why you like 'em. Make you look bigger, maybe. You dunno. Don't matter. They look fucking _sick_ , and that's all you care about. Maybe kinda on the dirty side, maybe all scuffed up and shit, but do you give a damn? Fuck no. 

'Cause that right there - that's _color._ Real color. You seen it here and there, in diluted and dried-out spots. Even the pictures in the textbooks at school are in black-and-white. Sometimes there'll be faded tones on posters in the Lobby, flyers and shit. Some of the _real_ brave rats will spray the walls with strong-smelling paint, writing bold shit like _"BLIES"_ and defacing Better Living's crisp white lines on their ads and posters. Just the other day, some brave Ritalin Rat spray-painted _"WHAT WILL SAVE US?"_ on an alley wall in bright goddamn vermillion, kicked off a whole mess of emergency sirens as the whitejackets hustled to mop up the mess and detain the bastard. Those messages get wiped out pretty quick. This is the first time you seen a real _something_ with color all stuck up on it. Not a picture or a poster stuck to the walls or a flickering image on the TV screen. Real, _beautiful_ fucking color.

You gotta take the things off when you sneak 'em back into the civilized parts of the city proper, but you cram them in your backpack and nobody's gonna know a thing about them. You ain't so stupid to take 'em to school, much as you kinda wanna - let one of the other kids hit you with your hands looking like _that,_ huh? But one look at something that bright and bold and it'll get snatched away and you'll probably get sent to have your brain bleached again. 

Fuck that! You're cruising from here on out. You ain't getting caught again. Not again, all right? Play it cool. Keep low to the ground. Don't fuck this up.

That's the motherfucking plan. You stay _outta_ re-education from now on. Not 'cause it would upset your dad, 'cause he don't give a shit, and not 'cause you care about being _Better_ or whatever, 'cause you ain't never gonna be Better. Not the way they want you to be. You're full-timing this shit now. Gonna be a Lobby dealer or something, live in the underground and the dirty. Soon as you're old enough to make it and not get hauled back to your dad's place, that's where you're gonna go. So you gotta get used to sneaking off and not getting caught, yeah?

Yeah. You're gonna get good at that shit. Gonna be a fucking _pro._

You're doing good. You're doing real good. Nobody's wringing your neck for not taking your meds, even if you ain't taken them in weeks now. Doing a good job pretending you're all normal and shit. The kids at school still take potshots at you and fuck you up real good and it's getting harder to fuck 'em up in return 'cause they're starting to do it in _groups_ and that ain't exactly fun but at least no one's dragging _you_ into re-education. Connor Holloway don't get so lucky. Fuck him. Little bitch knocked one of your front teeth out with a mean right hook. Fucker deserves it.

You're doing good. You're keeping your head above water. You're faking it _so_ good. Your grades are still in the gutter but who gives a shit? Your dad don't. Barely see him these days, and that's how you both like it. You never see the dog he brought home again. Hope the mutt's doing okay. Not 'cause you care about the thing or nothing, all right? Never got to meet it or whatever, not really. Just makes you all sad to think about dogs not doing so great. Hell, you probably give more shits about the things than your dad does. You'd think working with dogs would make him feel like he's gotta take care of them and be, y'know, _not_ a massive cunt all hours of the day, but nah. He could be surrounded by the fluffiest puppies in Batter City, and you bet he'd still be the same rotten piece of shit he always is.

Whatever. Not thinking of him. Not thinking of him ever 'cause you're hearing a noise right about now and it sounds kinda on the familiar side. Like -

Oh.

That's why.

It's a dog. Little shivering thing, eyes shut tight, whimpering softly. Just a puppy. It's almost blended all into the grime and garbage surrounding it, its tail curled up and pressed against its skinny, dirty flank. Probably got ditched for its size. Thing's awful tiny. It's a good thing you got your monster arms on, 'cause you ain't sure if this thing might bite or if it's got fleas. But it don't struggle when you pick it up and hug it tight to your chest. Can feel the little thing shaking. Its heart's beating like some trapped, fragile thing. Makes something in your chest twist up like nothing else in the world has done, and oh god, what're you supposed to do with it now?

Fuck. Already got an answer to that one. You take one look at the thing and you got your answer.

If your dad gets to bring home strays, so do you. If he don't like it, he can go fuck himself. It's a trial to get the dog into your backpack and then carry it back into the house without it making any noise, but you get lucky and your dad's out and nobody expects anybody to carry live animals around in their backpacks anyway.

You keep the little guy stowed in your closet and he adjusts to the mess with a kinked tail and floppy ears and big dark eyes. You ain't as good about animals as your dad, you bet, but you let him curl up on your bed with you at night and when you're at school you keep him shut up in the closet with bottled water and a nightlight for company. Turns out the little guy ain't picky. He's happy to subsist off of whatever you can sneak him to eat and if you gotta go hungry so he don't starve, you don't mind it much. For weeks, he survives on a diet of bathroom tap water and leftovers and any of your dad's extra dog food you can steal from the cupboards. 

He don't survive your dad finding him while you're at school. Can't really say how you survive it either, come to think of it. Get a sharp slash taken outta your eyebrow from a collision with the door jamb and it don't heal right, so now you always got this nick in your brow. 'Least you get him to stop short of strangling you to death by kicking his jewels in, but by then it's back to re-education 'cause you ain't supposed to emotionally attach to shit and a dog's on the list of things you ain't supposed to get attached to. 

That stint's only supposed to last a couple days. You get it to last longer by trying to choke out one of your doctors. It don't take you very far 'cause you're like three feet tall and got no meat on your bones but it keeps you there for another week and that's kinda what you were aiming for, even if it means you get old instructional videos beamed at you for twelve hours straight right after. Anything that'll keep you from going _back._ Don't wanna go back. _Never_ going back. Fuck, you'll take these bleached white walls and rooms with no windows any day if it means you don't gotta go back. Better than being at the house. _C'mon, oblivion._ You're ready for it. You need it. Need to think about anything but what you're thinking about right now. It's a relief when they snow your head out with new chemical cocktails and short out your brain with constant reruns of the same educational tapes and the same white noise of Mousekat cartoons on repeat, 'cause then you don't gotta think about the empty den of blankets you made in the closet for the dog you didn't wanna name 'cause you didn't wanna believe that he'd live. And look at that. Look at that. Good instincts for fucking once.

Gotta say, it's a good thing you're always wrong. Being right sucks.

They don't keep you in forever and you knew they weren't gonna. The docs give you these pills that're supposed to help you sleep better but really only make you way more tired than usual, 'cause you guess they figure being borderline non-responsive is better than being _too_ responsive. Don't give you anything for the bruises around your neck. They never do. They seen the violence mapped out on your skin. Place where your ribs've been kicked in more times than you can count. The green and yellow bruises fading like rotting fruit, patchworked down your back. They see them and they don't ask why they're there, 'cause they got it all noted down in your file, yeah? You get into fights at school. You don't get along with the other kids. Nothing else to it. They ain't there to treat your busted nose or your fractured zygomatic arch or your chipped tooth. They're there to make you Better.

You toss your new capsules into the same drawer you always do, your throat closed up tight like there's a fist clamped around it. Makes you sick to think about taking them.

Don't make it much better. Your closet smells like blood for weeks after.

Maybe you should've taken the damn pills.

****

**\--**

****

**i gifted you the will of gunpowder, a matchstick tongue, and all you managed  
was a shredded sweater and a police warning?**

**\--**

People recognize you whenever you head down to the Lobby now, 'cause you're always wearing your monster hands. They know that you like shit that you can take apart and you can trade them bits of wire from your headphones and whatever in exchange for broken calculators and things like that, things you can piece back together all on your own. Then you can sell people the _fixed_ pieces for even _more._ Technically not real legal, but when's that ever mattered to a freak like you?

Things start getting weirder, even for the Lobby. Most of the time there's all sorts of droids lying around and they don't bother anybody. The ones that still work just kinda keep to themselves or they're blathering on and on about Destroya, whatever the fuck that is. Some kinda robot god or something, but you dunno the specifics.

First time one of the 'bots stops you, you almost kick its goddamn head off.

"Please," begs an old service droid with both legs missing. They're just these stumps of twisting wires. You're ready to breeze on past and ignore it but then the droid manages to snag your pant leg with one hand. Grips you tight, grips you _strong,_ too. Don't look like it should be capable of it, but it's like trying to shake off a vice.

"Hey - fuck off!" You don't gotta justify _shit_ down here. Don't care if robots wail about Destroya all hours of the fucking day, but the second they start _pawing_ at you, then you're gonna have problems. Nobody gets to grab you, all right? You get enough of that at home. Get enough of that at _school._ People wanna go clawing for your arms and legs, then they gotta get used to getting a fucking fist in the jaw for it.

"Please," the droid says again. "My arm..."

"Let _go!"_ You get all shrill when you're upset and your voice gets all pitchy and loud and it's the worst thing in the _world_ but fuck, maybe robots shouldn't try jumping people for no reason if they didn't wanna get shouted at. So this is a pretty far cry from being mugged or whatever. Don't matter. Point is, you don't like being _grabbed at._ You shake your leg with a snarl but the 'bot keeps a scary tight hold on it. Feels like it's even gripping tighter. Oh, ain't that perfect.

You're gonna kick the shit outta this thing. You really are. Stand back, bitch, 'cause you're pissed and you got places to be and you're gonna knock this thing's head to the fucking Battery Towers if it don't let go of you _right the fuck now._

"I can pay you," says the droid. It releases you and scrapes up a handful of carbons, holding them pleadingly upward. "Please. _Please."_

Probably it's the promise of money that stops you on the spot and not the desperation in its voice. Everybody has it rough down here. What's make this unit any different, huh?

But - okay. Weren't expecting that. Weren't expecting the droid to be able and willing to _pay._ Sure enough, it's got the c's to manage too. Somehow.

Even if this prick just took a totally uncalled-for snatch at you, who are you to turn down shit like that? How difficult is it to put a robot back together anyway? Probably ain't that hard. Can't be that much harder than rewiring your headphones, and you done that so often that you can do it in your sleep.

"What's the problem?" you ask, though let's be clear here, let's be _real_ transparent - you ain't promising shit 'till you know more about what's what.

The droid gestures at its other arm with a slightly shaking hand. It's hanging limp at its side, dragging over across the ground. Legless, and only got one working arm? It's a wonder the damn thing's still running. Must've been a service unit, the kind that the rich higher-ups can afford to keep around the house to clean up after their shitty kids or whatever. It has a face, or it used to. Most of the more important droids do. Supposed to make them look all personable and shit.

"The wires have shorted," it says softly. The words scratch, sharp and needly. You can see the parts of the 'bot that've been all scraped back and exposing the mechanisms beneath. Its face is the worst bit. There's the parts of its jaw, the working bits of its _eyes_ that don't - they don't look right.

"Could spend that sugar on plus," you say.

"It will not last," says the droid. "I only have a week's charge left."

So it don't wanna die with no arms.

Why's that make you feel like shit?

Why's that sound like the saddest, most fucking _awful_ goddamn thing -

Don't make any sense. Don't make _any_ sense, 'cause this is just some droid and you don't even know what it was for. Ain't like finding a pup snuffling in the garbage. There's all sorts like this one in the city, though you never see them unless you're in the Lobby and the ones down here are just the dying models and rejects and stuff that nobody wants anymore. Nothing special. Nobody down here is anything special.

"Uh," you say, 'cause it's been a few minutes since this droid _begged you_ to help and you ain't sure why it asked you of all people. Maybe 'cause you was closest? Dunno. Don't matter. You crouch on down next to it and peer at the wreck of its shoulder cautiously. "What's, uh...d'you have any tools or anything?"

The robot shakes its head.

"'Kay." Well, what the fuck are you supposed to do with that, then? You squint at the place where the shoulder plating meets the balled joint of the arm and then you tug off your monster hands and you grab at it without thinking. The 'bot lets it happen, even sticks out the limb so you can poke and prod at the wiring and shit. Maybe it figures it ain't got nothing to lose. What's the worst you're gonna do, huh? Short it out more? You dunno what the fuck you can do here. All you're doing is picking at shit and hoping something jumps out at you, which it don't, 'cause you ain't a fucking mechanic. You ain't nothing more than some shitty freak kid who likes to hang around with all the other freaks instead of pretending to be something you ain't.

Maybe you were the only one to give this 'bot the time of day.

"Really dunno what you expect me to find," you start saying, but then _hello_ exposed circuits - what're you doing there? It's easy to twine your fingertips around the rubber casing housing each of those wires that lead on into where they're supposed to go. One of them's busted, and ain't doing what it should. So what's that leave you?

Gives you an idea is what.

"Hey," you say suddenly. "Can you move your fingers?"

The droid twitches the tips of its fingers, one by one, and then its thumb.

"How 'bout your hand?"

It swivels slightly on the ball of its wrist.

"Elbow?"

And _there_ it is. No question there. And since the 'bot can't move its arm around at all, that means there's gotta be a short in the shoulder joint too, right? Hell yeah. Easy fix. All you gotta do is figure out which of those are the wires that need replacing, and then figure how to _replace_ them. Not a big deal. Done it for your headphones plenty of times. Just run your fingers down along the circuitry until you find the ones that plug into the corresponding joints, and _boom._ Get them outta there.

Maybe you should've considered what'd this mean for the droid before you started doing it, huh. But you're halfway through yanking one of the circuits out when you stop and stare at the 'bot with a frown.

"This gonna hurt?"

The robot shakes its head.

"It does not matter."

That, uh, ain't really an answer? But, you know, okay. Maybe it don't care if it hurts. You get that. You rip that shit out quick just in case, just in case it does, and then you gotta fish around some of the junk and detritus lying around to find a suitable replacement. Don't take too long. There's all sorts of shit lying around out here. Old scraps of droids and service units that ain't nobody's had time to clean up or repair or pick through. Replacement bits're easy. People usually grab real big chunks of exterior plating and servos and things, and not the threads of wires and tiny bits that are so fucking necessary but that nobody thinks of as important. All you gotta do is re-insert them all into place, and hey, look at that.

"Okay, see if y'can move it."

The droid rolls its shoulder once, looking relieved. Somehow manages to look relieved. You dunno how expression software works. You ain't a coder or nothing like that. You look like a programmer to anybody? Fuck off.

"Nice!" Grin splits up across your face before you can help it. Look at that shit. _Look_ at that shit! You fixed something up, fixed something that _matters_ right and good and...the 'bot ain't gonna last long anyway but it looks nice and grateful and that ain't nothing. Presses the carbons into your hand and thanks you and then uses its arms to propel itself awkwardly away.

Didn't expect that to work. Wait, no, yeah you did. You totally did. Right? Yeah. Should've. You're good at that shit, yeah? Good at that shit, and absolute garbage at everything else. Yeah, something like that.

Whatever. Look, you got some c's in exchange for helping out a droid. Ain't the worst thing in the world. In this fucking shit universe, you gotta take all the grains of good will you can get. So maybe it feels a little good. Maybe it feels like you didn't fuck things up for once. Maybe you can enjoy that, 'cause that's gotta be a goddamn first, all right? All right? That cool? That _cool_ with everybody?

Fuck, just don't get used to it. Ain't like the droid's gonna last all that long. Ain't never gonna happen again.

****

**\--**

****

**i built you from the purest napalm,  
fed you wine and bourbon.**

**\--**

Nope! Guess what, fuckers? It totally happens again.

Second time happens maybe a month later, and it's a maintenance unit that probably ain't from the Lobby, 'cause it's a fully working model and all, but it says it's got some busted sensors on its arm and heard you could help it out. You can tell that it probably ran kiosks and help desks and shit since its face ain't really a face at all - more of a helmet, domed gold sheathed in steel. Weren't built to be personal. Dunno how word of one dying unit got back to the, uh, robot community or whatever the hell they got, but the droid's got c's so you fix it up for 'em, no issue. Couple weeks later you get another one asking you if you can fix their knee 'cause the joint's fucked up. And like, they're all _paying_ you, so sure, no problem, you'll fix their shit.

"Why's this keep happening?" you snap at the _fourth_ chromehead asking if you can fix their shit.

The droid blinks. It's another one from some other, probably nicer part of town. Looks like it came here all on its own, ain't a busted-up and broken down model. Walking with a bit of a limp is all.

"I heard that there is someone in the Lobby who fixes us when we break," says the droid. Hard to tell what this one's for. Ain't smooth and shiny like the models that get shopped around in pricier districts or whatever. Maybe a service or disposal unit or something. Does janitorial work, maybe. Don't fucking matter.

"You can't get anybody else to do it?" Look, it ain't like you don't appreciate the sugar. You do. It's the only income you got, and hell if you ever figured you'd be getting an _income._ Barely nine years old, and look at this - already a working, productive member of society.

"None of us can afford the repair services at the rates BL/ind charges." Okay, maybe should've figured that one out yourself. "Most others will only take us for our parts. You fix us."

Maybe you should be charging more. But you know what? This is already more carbons than you should be making. You make too much fuss, and BL/ind's gonna get on your ass again for doing something that probably ain't legal. Might consider it child labor or something. Whatever, though. For the first time in your life you can afford to get _food_ somewhere that ain't home, 'cause home don't _have_ food for you fifty percent of the time. You got all used to stealing cans of PowerPup from the cupboard to keep your dog going until your dad wised up to that little routine. He must've thought it was you being a greedy little shit, 'till he figured out what the real trick there was.

Can't steal from the cupboard at home anymore, so you gotta keep living some other way. No big. Could steal from the other kids at school, the ones that can actually afford lunches, but then you'll get dinged for that real good, you bet. Good thing you got other ways of keeping yourself breathing.

See, apparently you're getting some kinda name for yourself in the Lobby. Now it's something like every other time you're down there that you get approached by some droid that's got a busted circuit or a broken limb and they ask you if you can fix. Sometimes it's straight up way more damage than what you can cover and you gotta tell 'em that you ain't no miracle worker, you're just a piece of shit kid trying to get by like everybody else, all right? The more often you fix 'em, more you start to get what goes wrong and how to make sure it don't happen again. Grease a joint, tighten a screw. BL/ind really don't give a fuck about its units, does it? Don't give a fuck about the surveillance droids, whose faces are just one big eye, don't give a fuck about the companion droids built to occupy their exterminators. You see plenty of the whitejackets propositioning them on street corners, every time you're down here. Don't give a fuck about the headless walking scrap heaps that drag themselves along by their broken arms. Some of them're in a right fucking state. Goddamn _sad_ is what it is.

It ain't all great. You're in the middle of trying to sell off a pack of nic-sticks you got outta some high schooler's backpack - motherfucking _score_ right there - when a glitched up companion unit wobbles over to you in the middle of it. The enterprising Ritalin Rat ready to broker for your smokes eyes the thing up like it's a streak of dirt on her shoe.

"This one'a yours, Monster?"

People down here call you that now. 'Cause of your monster arms that you like to wear so people know who they're talking to, but also maybe 'cause of your shitty high-pitched laughter that makes people look at you funny. 'Least down here they don't go jumping you over it.

Don't mind the name. It's better than your given one. That ain't saying much. Being called a good-for-nothing Juvie in the making is better than being called by your given name. Being called five different types of "shithead" is better than being called by your given name.

"So what 'f it is?" you snap at her. "That a problem?"

"I don't deal with pornos," she says. And, uh, what? Listen, you know the names that some of these service units get called down here, 'specially the companion droids, but last you checked you was just the kid _fixing_ them, all right? Don't matter what they do for a living. Everybody's gotta make one. You don't _technically_ gotta be making one, but you're trying to save up for some real good shit to play in your broken headphones. Some of the rats down here sell music files on thumb-drives and even vintage tracks pressed onto _CDs,_ and you're itching for a little noise. Some _real_ noise.

First things first. This shit's getting in the way of your transaction. It kinda makes you laugh a little, _ha ha,_ but - shit, no, buckle that _down,_ act like it ain't no problem. Come on, come on. Don't lose this.

"You ain't dealing with pornos," you tell her, all level and steady. "You're dealin' with me."

"I don't deal with _any_ of that shit," says the rat. Says it with a sneer. Says it all sharp and cold and you're gonna - gonna fucking put your fingers in her _eyes,_ gouge 'em out, dig 'em outta her goddamned _skull_ and see how bad she screams and it'd fucking leak all over you but you'd see red, see real red for once, huh? Wouldn't you, huh? You can feel it. Can feel how it'd be to sink your thumbs into her socket sand until you turn those corneas to fucking _jelly_ \- 

She's shaking her head at you and shrinking back. You ain't moved. C'mon, answer - say something. Can't stop thinking of red. Red coming outta her fucking face. She got no _clue_ what it'd look like.

"Find somebody else to pawn your smokes to," she says.

She up and walks away. Mid-deal, no fucks given. No idea that you're shaking smoke and blood from your thoughts, but she must've been planning that or some shit, right? She waiting for a chance to turn her back on you? Waiting for a reason to wriggle outta the deal, huh? Shouldn't've made one up, then. Should've just told you up front she didn't want your shit, all right? Making up cheap-ass excuses like that don't make anybody look good. Fuck her anyway.

The 'bot's still standing there, looking at you all expectant.

"Happy?" you snap to its face. It don't even blink.

Here you thought the Lobby was all different from the rest of the city, 'cause the people down here don't got standards. Turns out that only goes for the droids.

Fine. Fine. They're better for you anyway. Don't talk shit about you. Can't fuck them up as bad as you do everything else you touch. All they do is ask you to fix them, acting all _nice_ and saying _please_ and then paying you for your service and you know what? That's better than what you get in any other part of your life. 'Bots ain't bad. You can patch them up when they ask and nobody's gotta know any better. You ain't even turned eleven by the time you know all the different service units in Battery City inside and out and can piece them together when they ask for it.

Then you turn eleven for real and BL/ind celebrates the way it always does and gives you another fucking check-up. Update, in case anybody was interested: you're still fucked up! Everybody raise your hands if you was shocked at that one. 

Turns out you also got some physical deficiencies too. Like, aside from the fact that you're way too fucking small. You're also underweight which means they're gonna prescribe you _protein pills_ and _extra vitamins,_ not that _that's_ fucking new. Turns out your eyes ain't as good as they should be on top of it, so you gotta go in to squint at letters on screens and get air blown into your pupils and then they give you this giant shitty pair of chunky glasses that you're supposed to wear every damn day for the rest of your life.

They last about a week. Maybe. A week or something, yeah. The same fist that breaks your nose busts up your new glasses in one swing and you mostly get real goddamn lucky that the lenses don't shatter into your fucking _eyes_ or nothing like that. You're gonna have to pay to have them replaced but all they did was made you look like even more of a freak than you do already so fuck it, what's it matter? So what if you gotta squint at things if they're far enough away? Used to it by now anyway.

The fights don't stop. Got good at hiding your bruises years ago, except when they do stuff like break your teeth or blacken your eye or break a limb. Never slows you down. You ain't gonna let it.

You save up enough c's to score some tunes from someone selling old chips and tapes in the Lobby. You get a pick of several scuffed up thumb-drives that he swears up and down are good shit, that all work just perfect. They're labeled with marker and tape and they don't look like much but you memorize his face so you know if you gotta fuck him up for scamming you. In the end you pick the one called "MAD GEAR" 'cause you like the sound of it, and then you gotta fix up your headphones so you can play this shit without anybody finding out. Set up a cheap and shitty proxy to plug into the wall outlet by your bed so that it looks like you're listening in. Easy. All you need is a spare set of headphones, and you got those already.

Can't sleep most nights. Used to that, but you ain't so used to having a way to pass the time when things keep you up. Creak of a foot on the floor, the sound of a door opening and closing. It's nights like those that you're a locked-up-tight bundle underneath the sheets, back to the fucking wall, jaw clenched hard as you hold your breath and wait for your dad to shuffle past. He don't usually come into your room unless he thinks you're awake so he can fucking yell at you up close and personal and then do something like threaten to throw you out the window for staying up past your bedtime, 'cause didn't know _he's_ gonna blamed for that, you piece of shit? You _selfish_ piece of shit? Get back to bed! Don't break curfew! God! Mostly it's just yelling. You can handle yelling. It's all the motherfucker does anyway.

BL/ind's supposed to have all these damn policies that make sure that kinda shit don't happen. But your dad's _immune_ to that bullshit, 'cause of course he is, 'cause his job's all important and shit. You dunno what he does with those dogs. Just know they're important enough for BL/ind to make sure your dad ain't housed in the Lobby and to make sure that he don't get blamed whenever _you_ act out. 'Cause that ain't his fault, right? Ain't his fault you're all broken.

Sure as shit don't make any effort to fix you though, does he?

Whatever. Why would he? All these fucking doctors and pills and regulated broadcasts and they still can't fucking fix you. God. Fucking freak. Fucking _monster,_ fucking _lunatic,_ fucking _beast,_ fuck. You're jammed up into a tight ball under your bedsheets, fists all clenched and nails digging into your palms hard enough to prick blood. Loosen your fucking jaw. Calm _down._ Fuck, c'mon.

Sound of footsteps creaks past. And keeps going past.

Apartment settles into silence and you can _breathe_ again and now you can huddle underneath the covers of your uneven bed with its sagging mattress and you tuck on your headphones, your _real_ headphones that you cooked up special, and you can listen to your tunes. Scrounged and saved up for months for these tunes. There ain't much of them. Just something like eight or nine songs, maybe, and they're all short and fast and _loud_ but they feel like adrenaline in your teeth, like blood in your _soul._ Feel like fire and blisters. Make you wanna get up and kick shit over, scream and _howl_ like a wild thing 'till somebody shuts you up.

Feels like being the shitty kid you always been.

Feels like, for once in your life, for one tiny little stupid moment in your shitty, nobody life, someone finally _gets_ what it is to be you.

****

**\--**

****

**preened you in the dark,  
hammered lullabies into your thin skull.**

**\--**

You been watching the chick with her long needle and pot of ink dig the patterns into skin whenever you see her in the Lobby, which ain't as often as most. Goes by the name of _Pandora,_ according to just about everybody else, and they say she'll let you pick a spot and a design and then she'll ink it into you. "Stick and poke," is what she calls it. You seen it enough to know what it is. It makes dark outlines show up on your skin no matter if you scrub and scratch at them. Like a permanent stain. Couldn't tell why somebody'd wanna thing like that until you see some of the designs that people come away with - little horned faces and skulls and snakes that twine around each other. They hide them under sleeves and shirts and gloves so that BL/ind don't see. Pockets of life and art sealed away beneath their clothes, like secrets stitched on into them.

In the nights when you get stuck in re-education and you gotta sleep in their starchy white sheets you claw at your skin till it bleeds and spots the pillows with red and - you gotta picture it as _ink._ Picture it like deep red ink, layered beneath your fingerprints. Patterns of winding roads and guitar strings and maybe some busted gears, you know, for _Mad Gear._ You scheme about this shit. Keeps you alive when you're stuck in those white-walled rooms. Keeps you...not _sane,_ 'cause what part of you ever was? But it keeps you focusing on the real shit. On what _really_ matters. Not getting _Better,_ 'cause you ain't never gonna get Better.

You settle on a pattern the last day of your whateverth time in re-education, draw it on the back of the paper prescription they make you carry home to get your dad to sign, 'cause you been there too many times already and they want you to prove that you ain't going back there anytime soon. It's nice of them to be optimistic on your behalf, but it ain't happening. Your dad ain't signing shit for you anyway. He said he was done stretching his neck out for you. Funny thing is that you got no clue what he means by that. Implies he _ever_ did shit for you in the first place, which he hasn't and still _don't._

Don't matter. What _does_ matter is that you make for the Lobby after school every day until you find Pandora and then you give her your paper (still unsigned, 'cause what's the goddamn point?) and ask her how much. You got enough to pay. Got enough saved up from droids begging for repair work and selling off some of your old pills for dirt cheap. Then she asks _where_ and shit, you hadn't thought of that. Hadn't figured you'd get this far.

Can't put it anywhere he'll see. Can't put it anywhere doctors'll see. That'll get you locked up in Juvie for sure, of age or not. You're maybe half a year out from that, and they might stop giving a shit if they realize you're that fucking far gone. No splitting hairs or whatever. Troublemaker's a troublemaker. 

Gotta be somewhere you can see, though. No point in getting it if you can't _see_ it. Can't be on your back or on your neck or nothing like that, yeah? Can't be somewhere you can't see it. You gotta see it. You need the reminder that you're this _thing_ they couldn't control, no matter what they did to try.

You get it on your lower rib cage, a little ways beneath your armpit. She says it's gonna hurt real bad to get the ink over bone and you're gonna have to crane your neck to see it, but that don't matter. It'll be easy to hide and most of the time doctors don't go asking you to take off your shirt anyway. Even if they do, you can hide it easy enough with your arm or a tank or whatever.

Turns out that getting inked hurts like a bitch. Knew it was gonna. You gotta crouch there for like an _hour_ in a dirty-ass street corner with your shirt pulled up and over your arms and tucked under your chin, sat in one place while this chick jabs you with her needle repeatedly and, okay, maybe you should've figured that you don't _like_ needles a whole lot and this weren't such a good idea 'cause now you're starting to feel a little light in the head. 

"You gonna pass out?" she says sharply. She's got this piercing on her lower lip that she don't always wear, probably 'cause she'll get herself in a shitload of trouble if any of the BL/ind pigs see her with it in. Maybe shove her into Juvie. You dunno. She don't look that much older than you. She's got her hair cut pretty short and a little jagged. Bordering on questionable when you take BL/ind style conventions into account. They don't like anybody standing out, see. She can't live too much on the edge when she's slipping in and outta the lower tiers of the city like this, like you bet she does. She ain't down here twenty-four-seven. She's got a real life outside all this. She splits her time. Probably how she don't get caught like you do.

"No," you tell her, 'cause you _ain't_ passing out. You're fine. Look at this. Sitting up and everything. Keeping your balance. You're fine. You're fine, yeah? You're fine.

"Good," says Pandora. She returns to stabbing your skin with her needle. Just gotta bite your tongue, and you won't make any sound or nothing like that. You're tough and shit. You can handle it.

The shitty, low quality air filtering in the Lobby makes the breeze sharp and drafty, and you shiver. Temp-regulation in the Lobby's such bullshit. Nowhere near as nice and comfy as the nicer districts. Goose pimples spring up on your arms on the spots where the skin ain't raised from scar tissue. Hell if you can remember where half of those bumps and scrapes all came from. Can't remember how many times your nose's been broken and healed all crooked.

"All I got is black," says Pandora, bending low over the skinny stretch of your ribs. "Hope that's okay."

"You can do other colors?" You almost twist around to stare at her at that, 'cause _what?_ You only ever seen her do people in black, never in other _colors._

"Just said I couldn't," she snaps. "Hear there's people out in the Zones who've got pigments and things like that. Whatever they use, can't find it in here."

People out in the Zones.

You know it's a thing people do. Some people live out there in the heat and desert. Can't picture it. You ain't never seen past the city line. The perimeter's all closely guarded like, twenty-four hours a day. In class they tell you shit like how you could _die_ out there. How many different ways there _are_ to die out there. What heatstroke feels like. There's no water. There are roving gangs of _killers_. There's a _war_ and it's so bad, so _fucking terrible,_ that you ain't allowed to learn about it. It'd ruin your tender little kid ears or something. You ain't been a little kid in years even if you're still walking around in a little kid's skin. Dunno if you ever were. Not that the school gives a shit.

"People live out there?" Can't keep yourself from sounding surprised about it, 'cause _duh._ Obviously people live out there. People live out there, you fucking idiot.

They live out there. Don't gotta answer to BL/ind out there, do they? Don't gotta answer to anyone.

"Zonerunners and stuff." Pandora's not looking at you anymore, hunched over the spot on your ribcage that she's studiously inking. The needle goes in, and - _fuck_ that hurts. Bite your tongue, just bite down on it hard and don't cry, don't fucking _cry_. This ain't no worse than any of the scars you got already. Nothing compared to getting your spine hit against a door or nearly getting your skull cracked open on the fucking bathroom sink.

"You ever see 'em?"

"I don't go out there," says Pandora sharply. "I ain't no Zone-rat."

She finishes you up and tells you to keep the area clean and not to wear too much over it and don't come whining to her if you change your mind about it later. Says it'll scab and itch and hurt a bit while your skin gets used to it, but that shit's normal. If it gets infected, you're fucked 'cause BL/ind's the only thing that can treat that shit so it's either suck it up and hope you don't die or go in and get it removed and probably get yourself re-educated.

Or slung into Juvie.

She's right that it fucking hurts like a bitch for a few days. 'Specially hurts when people jostle you in the halls and there's these red-hot flares shooting up from your abdomen and into your fucking spine like the needles it took to carve the thing there in the first damn place. People don't notice you sitting there and grimacing and wincing or whatever. Wanna dig your fingers into your skin. Wanna grab at it with your grimed-up nails and _tear_ and peel it all _back_ and - and cool it, calm down, fucking _calm down_. Don't need people noticing, right? Shut up. Shut the fuck up. Sit still.

If the other kids notice they don't say a word but you're pretty sure they don't 'cause most of them don't notice you at all unless they need a punching bag. Only people who notice you these days are the rats in the Lobby who still give enough of a fuck to deal with you. Them, and the 'bots that keep begging your help in tightening their joints and fixing their chassis. Your dad don't notice either. Good. Fuck him.

When the skin stops being all red and puffy and the pain starts to bleed away bit by bit you can run your fingers over the smooth dark stippling of ink splayed out against the skin over bone. It ain't a real complicated design. Just a monster face, like one that'd go with the hands you like to wear. Be nice if you could get some color in there. Green, to go with the claws. Green, with yellow eyes and black hair like spikes of static, all jagged and wild.

People call you _Monster._ You kinda _are_ one most of the time. Maybe that's why Better Living can't fix you up. Like you're some kinda inhuman nightmare. Some kinda fucking beast, some kinda fucking _thing_. Can't keep you caged up. Can't keep you muzzled and sedated. Chemistry's all fucked. Got demon blood pumping in your veins or some shit. With your dad being the piece of shit he is, ain't no wonder about _that,_ huh?

It's a good name. Fits you.

You gonna wear it like a fucking badge.

****

**\--**

****

**i painted over the walls, wrote the poems.  
i shook your goddamn boots.**

**\--**

Ain't even been a month since you got your last ink when you start hunting down Pandora to ask her for another. You wanna make your body a piece of _art,_ you've decided. All you got is ugly scars and the stains of old bruises and sure, maybe they make you look all badass, but all they are's reminders of where you came from and not where you're _going._ Art ain't allowed around here unless it's stuff that's all BL/ind approved. Just knowing you're carrying shit that they wouldn't approve of all over your body, that's gotta be worth something, yeah?

So you want ink. You want as much ink as you can possibly lay into your fucking soul. Maybe someday you'll get outta this city with its white walls and static on the air-waves. Anywhere else. Dunno where you're going yet. Somewhere that ain't here.

You catch her talking to some guy in the Lobby. Even for here, he looks outta place. Got this nice crisp suit that don't quite fit him and it's a little frayed at the edges, sure, but he's got this stiff stance and he's got a _suitcase_ in hand, oh shit. Must be someone from the _real_ city, the proper districts and shit. Bet he's gotta lotta sugar you could crib off him. You settle down behind the greasy smell of a dumpster and listen close.

" - all I can afford," Pandora's saying softly. "Who the hell else you gonna sell to, Tommy?"

"Plenty of Zone-rats would kill for this color," says the other guy, presumably _Tommy._ Sounds all snobbish, like he gotta real stick up his ass. Maybe you could kick his teeth in when you steal his shit. Pandora's got a sharp tongue but she's good people, all right? Don't like it when somebody talks down to good people. So what if she's sometimes gotta make her den in the Lobby? Don't make her any less people. Lobby people is still people. Ritalin Rats is still people.

"How you ain't dust yet is anybody's guess." Pandora sounds like she's scowling. "At least gimme the money's worth for what I _got."_

"It's all or nothing with this one," says Tommy, voice sharp.

"Fuck off," says Pandora. "Don't be a prick about this, Tommy. C'mon."

"It's business. Plain and simple."

"You're being a prick."

"You're entitled to your opinion." The tap of footsteps, and his voice starts fading. You gotta start straining to hear.

"Wait - "

"If you can't pay, I'll take my wares elsewhere," says Tommy. Slimy son of a bitch. Sounds real proud of himself when he says it, like he got something outta her. Sets flies crawling all under your fucking skin.

"Fine. _Fine._ Here. This'll cover the rest, right?"

Could take a chance. Could risk it. Might not pay off, but...yeah, okay. You lean out and peer around the edge of the dumpster and Pandora's holding something out to him. Can't tell what it is. It's real small. Tommy picks it out of her hands and rolls it between thumb and forefinger. It glints like metal. What the fuck? That her lip ring? She up and _giving_ it over to this guy, just 'cause?

"This should do it," says Tommy smoothly. He pockets it and flicks open his suitcase, hands a small rectangular box to her. "A pleasure as always, Pandora."

"Up yours," says Pandora. "Get outta here, Tommy. I'm not covering your ass again."

Fuck. Tommy's splitting and Pandora's sticking around and you gotta pick which of them you're gonna tail. Pandora you know how to find a little better, but you dunno this Tommy guy and if _she_ knows him maybe you can give her something for what she knows, yeah? Like business.

"Diiiiick." That's you, climbing out on top of your dumpster and sitting there with your legs swinging back and forth, grinning big and shitty when Pandora looks up at you like she didn't expect you to be there. 'Course she didn't. You're fucking stealthy as fuck.

"Goddamnit, Monster, how long you been there?" Pandora scowls, cocks her hip to one side, glares at you. Like that'll shut you up. Like that'll stop you from smiling like you find it all so fucking funny. It is kinda fucking funny. Fuck, it's actually _really_ fucking funny.

"Long enough to know your contact there's a _diiiiick."_

"He's a Zonehopper," says Pandora shortly. "What d'you expect?"

That drops your smile quick.

"What?"

He's a Zonehopper. And - no, no, hang on, that makes way too much sense. He said he could sell to Zone-rats. Well, how the hell else was he gonna do it? Sell to Zone-rats from inside the city? No fucking way. That'd never fly. God, you've never met a real Zone-rat before. Never met someone who lived out in the desert. 'Till now it was all a vague thing you _heard_ people in the Lobby mention here and there, but you never seen those people yourself. Never met any of them neither.

That Tommy guy, though. Didn't look much like he was living out in the heat and sand and sun. Looked like a real uppity guy, like he wouldn't look outta place in the high-end city districts. And wearing a _suit._ Who the hell wears a suit in the Lobby? That's just asking to get jumped and robbed. You know what asking for it looks like. You're always asking for it.

"He knows ways in and outta the place all over." Pandora ain't even looking at you as she says it. Says it like it's something everybody should know. You ain't _smart_ \- she forget that? She forget your head's empty?

"Y'know him?" You hop on off your dumpster and get all close, staring at the box she's tucking away in her jacket. She glares at you for that. _Back the hell off,_ that look says. 

"I deal with him," she says sourly. "He's a dick."

"Knew it."

"What d'you want, Monster?" She ain't in the mood for your games today. Most everybody gotta low tolerance for your bullshit, not that you can blame them for that. You also gotta pretty low tolerance for your bullshit. Sucks, 'cause you can't get _away_ from your bullshit the way everybody else can. Don't get no breaks from being you, unless you count the days when BL/ind has you trip out on their pills and bliss yourself out on their airwaves and you lose big old gray chunks of time.

"What d'you _think?"_ Like it ain't obvious what you want.

"Told you not to come whining to me if you changed your mind," sighs Pandora.

"That ain't it." Don't give you any credit, does she? Ain't like you deserve much credit. "What d'you want for another?"

She looks kinda wary at that one, but like hell she's gonna turn down a paying customer. 

"You know of what?"

Please. You _totally_ know of what. You been drawing designs on your notebook paper all day instead of paying attention in class, 'cause who _needs_ that, and you gotta perfect design that you're ready to see laid on the other side of your rib cage, to match the first. You shove the scrap into her hand and bounce on the spot 'cause you got some c's burning holes in your pockets now and you're about ready for the money to change hands before someone finds you and takes them off you.

She looks it over and then folds it up to mash it into her jacket pocket with a sigh.

"I can't do it now," says Pandora.

"The fuck not?"

"I just _can't,"_ she snaps. "When's good? I'll do you then."

As if you got any clue when's _good_ for you. You could get kicked back into re-education tomorrow if it's a rotten enough day. Never know what you're gonna be doing in the next _hour_ , let alone a whole day ahead of time.

"How soon?"

"Tomorrow morning," says Pandora promptly.

Gonna have to ditch school to make that. Probably gonna get into a shitload of trouble for _that_ if anybody finds out, and people're gonna 'cause they always find out. Might get you re-educated again, and people'll talk and maybe even figure out that you got ink on your ribs and _fuck,_ when're you gonna get another chance anyway?

"Can't do mornings."

"Just ditch school," says Pandora. "Everybody else down here has."

You would. Really would. Just that your dad won't let a thing like that slide, 'cause he ain't gonna let you drag him down with you. He's got standing and status and it might be pretty low on the ladder but it's enough to keep _him_ from cleaning up most of your messes. Or any of your messes.

You bring that up, you're gonna end up having to spill to her what the fuck that means for you and why you gotta space out the rhythm to whenever you drop into the dregs of the city where you belong. Nobody asks shit like that around here and nobody _should._ Pandora ain't your friend. She's business. You're business to her, and she don't care about whatever baggage you got carting around, all right? Got no reason to care.

You don't say shit. You shrug and say you can't do mornings so she says fine, pick a time then, and you're gonna meet here this time tomorrow if all goes well and you'll get some shiny new ink on the left side of your rib cage to go with your right. It's gonna be a set of gears bound up in dark chains, for _Mad Gear._ Maybe someday you can get some extra odds and ends, like the words _MAD GEAR_ themselves in bright spiky writing down along your side. You been replaying all the songs you got. There ain't many of them all total but that don't matter. That's what keeps you _alive_ when you can't sleep and when it's been a shit day and when you gotta hide out and hope your dad don't come into your room. Gotta keep the volume low so nobody hears it, but _fuck_ , what would it take to play those songs _loud?_ They gotta be heard loud. You're goddamn _sure_ that they're meant to be played loud, _fuck._

What about the desert?

You think you could last out there? Tiny, underweight, not even twelve fucking years old? Can barely survive off whatever you can scrounge in the Lobby or steal from the house. Think you could last in the desert? In the heat? What about the sun? Bet it's scorching hot out there. None of this temp-regulating bullshit that keeps the city cool.

Don't mean you can't try it.

You'll be fucking dust before the next morning.

Don't mean anything. Dust is better than here. Anything's better than here.

Oh, you think you could get out? How would you get out? Nobody gets out. People don't just _get out._

Tommy does. Whoever the fuck _Tommy_ is. Stands out like a beacon, though. Stands out like _you_ do, ha. He's gotta know ways out into the dust, right? He's gotta. If he sells to zonerunners and things, he's gotta know all sorts of backdoors and hidden passages and shit. Find him, and you can fucking find your way _out,_ right?

Maybe. Maybe.

Don't do it. You wanna die so bad? Just piss off your dad real good and he'll break your neck, smear the contents of your skull against the fucking _walls_ , just convince him it ain't worth it and you ain't worth it, like he's always known and like _you_ always known - 

Shut up! _Shut up._ God.

Gonna find him.

Find him first. You can figure it out later. You never figure shit out - _shut up._ God, shut _up._ Shut up, shut up, shut up, just focus, fucking focus. You can find him. Find Tommy. He's the only motherfucker you ever seen wearing a suit down here so it can't be too hard, right? Or bug Pandora. Bug her into giving away some of his haunts or whatever. She could do that. Maybe a few carbons'll loosen her tongue or something.

It ain't a promise to yourself or nothing. You wanna find him and see what he's like, is all.

Learn what the Zones're like, straight from someone who's been there.

****

**\--**

****

**now you want out?  
think you'll wrestle me out of you with prescriptions?**

**\--**

Dunno how long it's been since you seen him last but he still sticks out sharp in the dirt and trash-lined alleyways of the Ritalin District. Pulling some deal with somebody, you dunno who, don't _matter_ who, but the second it's done he starts to walk away and that's when you fucking _pounce._

Don't actually _pounce._ Just sneak on up behind him and call out, nice and loud:

"Tommy, yeah?"

And what must you look like to a guy like him, huh? Some tiny four-foot-nothing freak with too-long hair you ain't cut (gonna get you in trouble), locks matted and snarled up into tangles, your eyes all sunken and one of your teeth still growing in and your skin all scuffed except where you got your monster hands on, big and green and curly-clawed.

He don't look surprised to see you. Then he sees your hands and his eyes go all wide and his skin goes all pale and dusty. They scare him that bad?

For once, you gotta love how you laugh at this shit. Probably makes you seem all _scary_.

"Where'd you get those?" He points at the hands you're wearing. Stops your laughter dead, 'cause that ain't how this is supposed to go.

Don't got an answer to that one at first. You're all frozen up. Fuck. Can't do that here. Not down _here._ C'mon, c'mon, focus, shape up, do something, _say something._

Put some spikes up, _anything._

"What's it t'you?" That comes easy.

"You shouldn't have those," says Tommy, all stiff. 

Oh, you shouldn't _have_ them? You wanna laugh at that. Fuck, you _do_ laugh at that. What's this prick think, that the world's got these nice little rules that everybody plays by? You ain't been so stupid to believe that since you could _crawl._

"I found 'em, so they're mine."

"They don't _belong_ to you."

Where's this guy get off? You was supposed to ask questions about the Zones, and here he is grilling you about your monster hands like you didn't find 'em, what? Years ago? Fuck off.

"I _found 'em,"_ you say, 'cause _duh._ "So they're _mine."_

"You don't even know where they came from!" He looks all pissy now too. Fucking great job at that, huh? Ten seconds into meeting this guy and you're already pissing him off. That's gotta be a new record. He takes a step forward like he's gonna fight you over them so 'course you grab him by the neck, squeeze so fucking _tight_ that he can't breathe and then start hitting him in the face over and over and _over_ again 'till you hear his nose _crack_.

But the real you ain't doing that.

The real you's standing there watching Tommy look at you like you're something he picked outta the garbage can, like you ain't used to _that_ by now. Thinking about what it'd feel like to sink a fist into his mouth. Thinking about what it'd take to beat the sneer from his face.

You don't back down but you don't let him get away with that shit. Fuck him.

"Didn't belong to nobody else, so I took 'em," you fire on back. 

"They _do._ They _do_ belong to - " Tommy goes quiet, cuts himself off, stands incredibly still. "...you found them here? In the Lobby?"

"Uh, _yeah?"_ What, he deaf too? Maybe you _should_ see if you can get your fingers into his ears, _dig_ at them - "'S what I just said."

"Oh," says Tommy. 

He goes quiet.

 _Okay,_ then. Whatever that means, it's got him all thoughtful and strange and this ain't what you came for. You don't roll on any closer, 'cause now you're a little bit suspicious that this dick might try and take your monster arms, and they're _yours_ 'cause you found them and if anybody thinks different, they can get _fucked._

"What's out in the Zones?" Well fuck, that ain't how you wanted to start. Should've figured. Can't do anything the normal way. The words come spraying on out without any rhyme or reason and that's just what it's like to be you, so what else'd you expect? Didn't expect nothing else. You know what you're like. Know damn sure what you're like.

"What?" Tommy blinks like he's all lost in thought, stares at you.

"What's in the _Zones,_ motherfucker?" His expression tightens again, and maybe he don't like that you're giving him lip. That's just too fucking bad, ain't it? For once, you ain't the one who made this whole thing difficult. You didn't set out to make things difficult. _He_ did.

And that's a fucking lie. It was you. It was _you_ again, making shit difficult, making everything so goddamned _difficult_ , 'cause that's what you do. You get your claws in things and you dig at them until they eat you alive. Be nice if you could get yourself to stop but you it's like asking a dog not to take a shit on someone's doorstep. It's just your fucking nature. And you're so fucking _good_ at it.

"Give me a reason to tell you," snaps Tommy. Recovers fast, don't he? Two seconds later and he's back to mouthing off at you. "Or find out for yourself, given that you're so interested."

"'Kay." You been thinking real hard about doing that anyway. "So how d'you get out?"

Tommy's expression is getting that pinched look that probably means that you're chewing the hell outta his last nerve. He kinda looks like that every time you've seen him, so no knowing if that's _your_ fault (probably is) or if his face is just like that. But you kinda have that effect on people anyway. You bug the shit outta them. They get annoyed at you. It's a fucking gift.

"You figure it out," says Tommy, all irritable. "How _old_ are you? There's hardly any childcare in the Zones."

Sure, sure. Just 'cause you're short don't mean you're _that_ little, all right. Been taking care of yourself since you could walk. Then a companion droid accosts you to beg you to fix a busted ankle joint and by the time you're done patching it and got your payment, he's gone.

Easier to pick him out now that you know what you're looking for. Next time you see him it's late and curfew's already settled in and you _know_ there's eyes out for you but if you sneak back _now_ they'll definitely catch you so you're gonna stretch out the freedom you got until you literally can't anymore. That means sneaking through the Lobby in the dead of night looking for a safe place to hide 'till you don't got scarecrows and whitejackets hounding your ass. It'll get harder to pull stunts like this once you turn twelve. You gotta get outta here before you turn twelve. Once you're twelve you're gonna be grounded in Juvie for _life_ , you bet, and you got enough of a record for them to _never_ wanna turn you loose.

Could hoof it to the city line and hope for the best. Might even get all the way to the desert if you do. But Tommy's the best bet you got, so even if it's dark and you gotta find someplace to hide, Tommy's who you're keeping an eye out for.

You find him, all right. Find him fetched up against an alley wall, groaning. Looks like he's just gotten the shit beaten outta him, too. His suitcase is open and busted beside him. Deal gone wrong, you bet. People down here got all sorts of tempers. Been on the wrong side of them more than once - _focus!_ Focus, _god!_ Stop dicking around and _focus._

He ain't moving that much, so no telling if something's broken. Not your problem. If he ain't in any state to fight it, you can try picking free shit outta his pockets. You move to do exactly that when Tommy twitches and one of his eyes is all swelled shut, shiny and dark, but the remaining one opens into a fierce slit.

"Don't even think about it," he says. The words're all rusty and ragged, and he coughs a bit after he says them. His shoulders jump and the words lapse into a groan. Guy's barely holding himself together, and he wants to try and toss _threats_ to keep scavengers like you at bay?

Can't keep yourself from laughing at that. Can't help it. One of those reflexes that wells up inside you and you can't gnaw it back no matter how you try, and once Tommy's done startling he peers at you and his face crimps up into a glare again.

"Get outta here," he hisses. 

His voice sounds all wheezy and pinched, like he's having trouble breathing. That fucking sets you off all over again. It ain't even fucking funny, but here you are, fucking _laughing_ like it's the best goddamn joke in the world.

"You hear me?" snaps Tommy in a loud whisper made all the louder with rage. _"Fuzakeru na!_ Fuck off!"

What, he don't want you seeing him lying there like a deflated fucking balloon? He's got a pattern of bruises staining one side of his face and his nice clean suit is all flecked with red and rumpled and creased and the fact that he won't shut the fuck up, the fact that he sounds _so fucking desperate_ to get rid of you boils something _else_ up inside you and you gotta keep it down, you really gotta keep it down so no dracs or nothing overhear you but you've got your face buried in the crook of your elbow to keep your laughter from getting all shrill and _loud_ but it ain't really helping.

 _"Puk gai!"_ Tommy's eyes're all round and white about the irises, bulging outta the green and yellow patchwork on his face. The guy's fucking _livid,_ holy _shit._ _"¡Vete a la mierda! Fongool!_ Scram!"

Oh my _god_ he's still going. He's still _going_ and you don't even know what languages he's speaking anymore, _christ._

"I _swear_ to you," growls Tommy in a furious whisper, "I _swear_ to you I'll - _would you stop laughing?"_ The words spike up sharply and he almost sounds _terrified_ and it'd be nice if you could shut yourself up, really, you _wish you could_ but now that you been set off you got no clue how to shut yourself _down_ again. Would that you could, motherfucker, honest.

Footsteps're getting closer. Dracs? Some low-level thug looking for an easy mark to mug post-curfew? Don't matter. Shut up. Shut up, shut up, shut up. Fuck, _fuck,_ gotta get this under control, gotta -

Tommy's trying to crawl away on his hands and knees, scrabbling for his suitcase. You haven't got what you came here for and you got nothing to blame but your own sick fucking sense of humor for that. Could try pinching c's from his pockets, snagging whatever's lying on the ground from his spilled-open suitcase, but the steps're getting closer and it's about time to bolt.

Quit laughing. Shut up. _Shut up,_ god! Shut _up_ or they'll hear you!

_Gonna get in so much fucking trouble -_

So quit _just sitting around._ Move. _Move,_ you got that? Gotta move. Gotta get outta here. Gotta get outta here now before they see you - 

They see you.

Don't believe much in luck. Good thing too, 'cause otherwise you'd be holding out hope that they wouldn't end up kicking you straight to Juvie despite you being a couple months away from turning twelve. You ain't, and they don't.

Juvie Hall's a lot like being back at the house or at school, turns out. Only difference is the people there're a lot more honest about what they plan to do to you.

Things could be worse than a little honesty.

****

**\--**

****

**a good man's good love and some breathing exercises?  
you think i can't tame that?**

**\--**

You get outta your first stint in Juvie a little after you turn twelve for real. Gotta new roadmap of violence battered into your skin: a nick taken outta your left ear from the time you had a brawl with someone who weren't content to settle for fists and feet and chose to _bite_ you instead; raised lumps of scar tissue where the broken glass cut into your fingers as you tried to haul ass out a shattered window. Most of the scrapes you get to keep ain't even skin-deep. The disciplinary staff're all armed with shock-prods for kids who _really_ need to get the message, and the the tetany of an electrical current clenching your muscles hurts like a bitch but they don't leave nothing in the way of scarring. Got some ideas for fresh new ink to make up for it. Won't matter 'till you can find Pandora again, so she can stab something new onto you.

True to his word, your dad don't come for you. Weren't expecting him to.

Juvie ain't that much worse than re-education. The kids there're rougher with you and with each other, 'cause they're older and stronger and everybody there's a whole lot _taller_ than you at the ages of twelve to fifteen, and everybody on staff's way more willing to give you some real good "disciplinary measures" if you ain't falling into line, but none of the kids could hit all that harder than your old man and those "disciplinary measures" weren't nothing compared to what you'd get at the house so it weren't even all that bad. Most of it was the same shit you were gonna get _anyway._ Listen to the docs in charge. Take your meds. Report to your classes. You go at each other's throats, we'll separate you with whatever force we got.

The nights were the worst. Kept getting white noise beamed on into the shared dorms and the fuzz of the wall-mounted screens literally _never_ shut off and made you grit your teeth so hard your molars ached. It weren't the same as being mandated to tune into Mousekat cartoons on the weeknights. Got used to ignoring _that_ shit real early on. These tunes and images and pictures in the dorms and classrooms and cafeterias were _nonstop_ and you swear to god you're gonna see them on the backs of your lids every time you close your eyes for weeks after.

Probably the point of all that, huh?

They go harder in Juvie than they ever did at school or even in re-education, probably 'cause you were still a kid in re-education and in Juvie you were well on your way into becoming an _adult_ in accordance with the legal system. They turn you loose after a couple months 'cause you bet you do a good job faking it. That, or they got a lotta confidence in their ability to school the fight outta you. Something like that. Still feels good to get outta those gray-walled buildings a little ways from Standard Services. They kept you and your fellow delinquents walled back with so many layers of concrete and barbed wire that the place felt like a prison. Kinda was.

So fuck it. Don't even bother stopping by the house before you're back in the Lobby by nightfall. You're getting _outta_ this city, soon as you goddamn can.

Gonna start by finding Pandora. You get lucky 'cause she's staying in the Lobby tonight and you can pay her to lay a new symbol at the small of your back, little to the right of your spine. Makes it easy to make conversation while she's sticking you with her needle.

"Seen Tommy lately?"

"Why d'you _give_ a shit?" The bitch jabs you all vicious. You can feel your smile cracking 'cause you wanna laugh. She thinks that'll hurt more than getting a hank of your hair ripped out by one of the bigger Juvies?

"'Cause." You don't gotta tell her shit. You don't need her knowing that you ain't gonna be here forever. You're gonna make a clean shot outta this scrap heap of a city. Gonna rip yourself free of the chemical excess and the smoke and the gray walls and the clean white streets that run on and on forever. Fewer people that know that shit the better. It ain't her business.

"He won't sell to you," says Pandora. She snorts. "He don't deal to kids."

"What're you, then?" Like she's all _that_ much older than you.

"'M sixteen," she snaps. "Old enough for the city to consider _me_ an adult. You look like you're ten."

Yeah, yeah. You're probably still gonna get that when you're thirty.

 _Pff,_ ha ha, who you kidding? You ain't never gonna be thirty.

"Just wanna know where he goes, 's all."

"I look like I know?" Pandora's got her lower lip between her teeth. You can hear her frowning. "He comes through here sometimes. Don't deal with the city proper. Just rats like us. 'S all I can tell you."

Helpful. Real fucking helpful, ain't she? Whatever. She ain't gonna help you, you can help yourself.

"You want color?" she says suddenly. You wanna twist around to look at her but you dunno if she's still inking you up so you hold perfectly fucking still. _Perfectly_ fucking still. 

"Thought you couldn't do color."

"I can if I get it." She holds something out to you - a slender box with a lid she flips open and _fuck,_ there they are. Dark bottles of colorful ink. They all look kinda black in the half-light but the rims of the plastic bottles are stained with faded shades. Green, red, blue, yellow...shit.

"Th'fuck'd you get a thing like that?" Wanna touch them. Wanna reach out and hold them up to the light and stare at them and pour them all over your _skin_ and - and stop it, stop it, they ain't yours, do you wanna fuck this up that badly? Cut it out. Cool it.

"Tommy," says Pandora, little big smug. "It'll cost you extra if you want color, though."

Please. Like you even gotta hesitate. 

"How much extra?"

It's fucking worth it. The third ink you get is a buncha letters, _F.T.W.W.W._ outlined in black and shaded a deep red. It's an acronym you heard in the tunes you bought off the streets and spray-painted on the Lobby walls. _Fuck the Whole Wide World._ Kinda feel that, most days. Kinda really feel it. You wanna touch the thing every time you see it but you gotta hold off until the tattoo's stopped itching. _Fuck,_ though. Almost feels like if you ran your fingers over the edges of the the sharp, blocky letters, your fingertips would come away all bloody.

Every patch of ink you lay into your skin's another risk that BL/ind'll figure out what you're doing to yourself. 

It's fucking worth it. It's all fucking worth it.

They ain't never gonna take that away from you.

You're getting outta here before they pull any shit like that.

****

**\--**

****

**i always come home.  
always.**

**\--**

They're gonna stick you back in Juvie if they find you. They're gonna stick you back in and every time they do that there's a chance they're gonna uncover your ink and you _seen_ the scars on the people that get that shit removed, the ugly canvas of keloid that looks all boiled and awful against their skin. It ain't gonna happen to you. You know what you are. Ain't never gonna forget what you are.

Tommy's your best bet. He's the only guy you know who makes it in and outta the city on the regular, but the problem is you ain't seen him since you got outta Juvie and you're running outta time.

The city's supposed to be dark and quiet by nighttime. Curfew locks into effect and all. You were banking on that. Bat City runs on cycles, on reliable loops. Timers go off at all the same times. TVs switch on when they're supposed to. Lights and alarms and patrols all run on a strict-ass schedule, and that's how you been able to get ahead of them most days. Things ain't how they should be, and you dunno why.

All you know's that the city ain't dark and calm and quiet like it's supposed to be. It's full of clanging alarms.

 _"Please stay in your homes,"_ the overhead speakers is all saying. _"There is no need to be alarmed. Please prepare proper evacuation procedure. This is not a request."_

You've heard that voice before back when you went to school on the regular. Mostly heard it for shit like fire drills and whatever. The monotonic, pleasant tone is just _ever so slightly_ too modulated to sound all that normal and nobody ever likes hearing it on account of it being creepy as hell. You like it even less now that it's being piped over every speaker in what sounds like a city-wide broadcast, even if you ain't never even _heard_ of a thing like that happening. Whatever's going on, it's big. It's real big. 

Means you gotta get out now. You gotta get out _now_ , while security's stretched thin, while people're all too busy doing whatever they're doing to bother with delinquents like you.

You know Tommy's in town. You _know_ he is, 'cause Pandora did that fresh ink for you the other day and she had actual _color_ to put into your skin. Cost a whole lot extra, but it was worth it. She said herself it was Tommy that dealt it to her.

C'mon, c'mon, where _is_ he - 

You sight him down while he's doing...something, you dunno what. Looks like he's digging through scrapheaps. Whatever. Don't care. Don't matter. No time to be polite when the alarms're cracking down like they are. You ain't never been polite a day in your life anyway. You grab him by the shoulder, spin him around, and he almost knocks you across the face for that bit of roughness but stops himself.

For some reason. Dunno why. People've hit you for less.

"I need a way out." No prefacing, no nothing. No time. "You know ways outta the city. I need a way out, man."

Tommy's staring at you like he ain't never seen you before. His eyes is all white around the edges the way he gets when he's real stressed out. He's breathing all hard, his shoulders heaving.

"...you," he says. Recognition floods his face like a wave. Tightens up his jaw and sharpens his features. "I have nothing to say to you."

"I'll _pay!"_ Showing your hand too soon. Showing everything too soon. You gotta get out. You _gotta_ get out, though. Don't matter if you're all weak for sinking to his level or whatever. 

"You'll..." Tommy's gone all frozen. Now ain't the time for him to fucking _panic._

You all but shove a fistful of carbons at him.

"C'mon, how much's it gonna take?" You can feel yourself snapping, snarling like a fucking _dog._ "I'll pay, and you get me outta here! 'Kay?"

The sight of money seems to snap Tommy out of it, whatever he's feeling. He blinks, stares.

"Anything?" he says. "You'll pay anything?"

"Just _said_ that, didn't I?"

"The arms," says Tommy. Fucking zero hesitation here. You don't even gotta think twice about what he means. Know exactly what he means. Got all cagey and possessive of the things the first time he saw you wearing 'em, and you'd tell him to go fuck himself but they're just _arms_ and if it means you get outta here, then it means you _get outta here._

They're in your backpack. Just gotta dig them out and thrust them at Tommy, who grabs them tight. Grown-ass man like him looks dumb as hell clinging to these kiddie monster arms like they mean anything, but his expression's all darkened and closed up and he hangs onto them.

"Now _c'mon."_ You just handed those things over and it can't've been for nothing. They were the first spot of real color you ever landed on. Better not regret giving these up.

Tommy nods. He looks all breathless, his dark eyes darting this way and that, but he's nodding and he jerks his chin.

"This way."

Follow him. Stay right on his ass. You had to give up a little piece of yourself to pull this off and it better be fucking worth it. Maybe they weren't a _part_ of you when you were born but down here you're _Monster_ , and that's how people know you, and without your hands it's like you ain't no one at all.

It's worth it. It'll be worth it. Tommy's gonna get you outta here. He better get you outta here. You're running after him and he's slower than you 'cause you're a _fast_ little shit even with your short-ass legs but you're keeping up. He's panting. There's sweat gleaming on his forehead, white beneath the emergency lighting, slicking his hair dark to his head and the nape of his neck.

You round a corner. There's alleys that you ain't never been down before. One of them plunges down into a stairway you're pretty sure you never been by. At the end there's a door, stained with layers upon layers of old, flaking paint. Tommy makes for it and you're right on his ass.

"Stop."

Fuck. _Fuck._ You know those harsh tones. It's the warped, barely-there bark of a drac, blurted out from behind the crisp white lines of a mask.

Tommy stops and you nearly slam right on into him. Step around, and it's right there. It's right there, standing in front of the stairway down to the door _you need to go through,_ blocking the route, raygun upraised and pointing at the both of you.

Tommy hugs your monster arms to his chest like they're gonna keep him safe from laser fire.

You gotta get outta here. Now. _Now._

"Return to your homes," says the drac. The words sound the same like they always do, coming from dracs: like they're being said by somebody who ain't said _words_ before. Sounds like it's gargling rocks or some shit. But it's got a raygun out and it's pointing at you and oh, fuck, Tommy can't really _fight,_ can he? He ain't no scrapper. You saw him beat all to hell once and you ain't never see him carry around a gun and hell if you got any idea if he even knows how to shoot one, but that's the thing, that's the _thing._ You're _fucked._

"I'm not a citizen," says Tommy. "I'm not bound by your ordinances." He's gone all ghostly and pale beneath his shock of dark hair but the words are firm and they don't tremble. Can see him shaking, though. Close enough to see it.

The drac don't say anything to that. 

"Return to your homes," it says again. It's like it ain't even heard Tommy speaking at all. "This is not a request."

"I'm not a _citizen!"_

That ain't gonna work. He think that's gonna work? He ever run into dracs before? Fuckers barely _speak_ , let alone _listen._ Don't go at any of them with _logic,_ fuck's sake. It ain't gonna work. It _never works._ How's he lasted in Bat City not knowing a thing about how dracs work?

The drac starts walking at you both.

"Suppressing force authorized."

Tommy throws himself flat to the ground a secomd before the thing fires. Bright light sizzles overhead, showers sparks from the fucking walls. Don't fucking give it time. Don't fucking _wait_. You run for the drac straight on, 'cause you don't gotta plan but you don't need a plan to take motherfuckers like _this_ down. To hell with the rules, to hell with ordinances, and to hell with BL/ind - you're getting the fuck out tonight, 'cause if you don't do it now, when're you ever gonna?

You're attacking a draculoid. You're jumping BL/ind enforcement. That don't net you a nice long sentence in Juvie, you dunno what will. They'll probably be all thorough if they find you. Strip you, scour the ink from your skin. You ain't gonna let that happen. It ain't never gonna happen. Not gonna let it.

You can do this. You can do this. You can fucking do this. Thought about doing it plenty. Thought about fucked up shit like cutting people's wrists open and cutting your own wrists open and ripping someone's skin off their fucking face so you can fucking try it out for real. See how good you are at this for real.

The drac fires again. Tommy shouts once but you ain't looking at him so you dunno if he got hit or what and it don't matter. The drac's bigger than you and stronger than you like most people are, 'cause you're just some short fucking kid without a gun and without anything to your name but a pair of monster arms that ain't even yours anymore. You got one advantage. It ain't expecting you to charge it. Can tell it weren't expecting that when you latch onto its fucking arm to try and keep the gun off you and start kicking it in the shins and you dunno what you're doing other than _fucking it up_ as quick as you can. Can't hope to bowl it over 'cause you're tiny as shit but you hit it with enough force to make it stagger. You're like a motherfucking bullet. You're a motherfucking _monster._ C'mon, beast. Put that bloodlust to fucking use for once.

The gun goes off several more times. More streaks of white light sear the air. Gotta deal with this quick. Gotta deal with it now before reinforcements hear and start showing up to collect.

"Return to your homes," says the drac. Its tone is the same placid, distorted gurgle as before. "Return to your homes. This is not a request."

"Shut the fuck _up!"_ You ain't got much fighting power but you know where to hit where it hurts. Everybody's got the same weak spots. Eyes, throat, stomach, knees, balls. Neck's closest. You start hitting it in the neck. Maybe you can pound its fucking windpipe in. Get it off your backs. Get it _off your damn backs_ -

"Return to your - " says the drac.

You fucking kick it between the legs and its words turn into a shout. It stumbles back and tries to grab you by the hair, fucking _pulls_ on it. It's trying to turn you around and get you in a lock, elbow around your neck. That's how they train them to take down a struggling kid. It's been done to you enough times. It's the same shit every drac pulls on you. It twists you around, works gloved hands around your neck. Bite it. Bite it, bitch! It ain't taking you! It ain't taking you today!

Tommy's up and moving. Can't tell if he's hurt. He's backing away and you glimpse him staring at you with his face all tight and drawn, still clutching your monster arms.

"H - " Can't breathe. Can't shout. 

He turns and runs.

 _"Hey - "_ The word's barely a breath.

He's running. The bitch is running. The bitch is running and leaving you to the drac. He's leaving you even though you _paid him to get you out_ and you wanna skin that fucker _alive,_ wanna rip his _lungs_ out, he - the mother _fucker_ \- 

You ain't going back, you hear? You ain't _fucking_ going back. Not to Juvie. Not to the house. Not to your dad. You ain't never going back. No one's making you go back. They can't. They can't fucking make you. Tommy's running, disappearing in the shadows of the Lobby and taking your escape with him and the drac's trying to get a better grip on you. Can't freeze up. Can't do that now. You can't. You can't. C'mon, c'mon, c'mon, what can you do? What can you do. What can you do.

Feet're off the ground. Can't stomp on its toes. You bite its arm. The white jacket takes the sting outta your teeth.

"Stop resisting," says the drac, toneless. Its feet scrape over cement. "Return to your homes."

Squirm. Thrash. This _fucker_ ain't dragging you back to Juvie. The only way this fuck is getting you back there is if it has to drag you kicking and screaming the whole fucking way. The whole _fucking way!_ The drac's trying to keep you in line but you ain't making it easy for the bastard, hell no! You're wriggling like you've got a live current ripping through your body the whole time.

Then it feels like you're flying.

You're flying and then you're _falling._ You hit the stairs hands-first and the friction of the concrete against your hands nearly skins them bare. The drac rolls, arms flailing, nearly fucking colliding with you as it spins wildly down the steps. Must've shuffled the fucker so far back it took a tumble down the stairs. You land on your back, the bottom step digging into the space between your shoulder blades, but at least your head ain't ringing. You gotta get up. Roll onto your side and you come face to face with the drac, only its _head ain't where it should be._ It's staring you at you from fucking - from around its shoulder, from behind its _back,_ its mask's mouth gaped open wide and the empty draculoid eyes staring sightlessly at you and you fucking - you know from the angle, you can fucking tell, all right? You can fucking tell. You seen it happen before. You seen it in the Lobby before. You know what it takes to snap a fucking neck. You know what it takes.

You been close to dead bodies before but this has gotta be the first one that you ever been responsible for. The drac's laying there still on the ground and you can't quit staring at it. _Move._ You dare it to move. C'mon. Get up and move. You dead, or just playing?

It ain't playing.

It's lying there all still. Its head is all twisted around. Its head is all...all _twisted_ around, fuck.

Oh, fuck.

You're so fucked for this.

They find you, they realize you did this, and you're - you're fucked. They got surveillance all over the city. 'S how they keep finding you. Cameras and drones and mounted feeds and shit like that and there ain't as much of it in the Lobby but they're gonna figure it out. Gonna figure out that you did this. Won't care if it was a fucking accident or not. You toppled this drac down the stairs and its neck is all _wrong_ and that's on your fucking shoulders, ain't it?

They ain't gonna care it was an accident.

Was it? _Was_ it an accident? You were resisting. It said so. It said _stop resisting._ You were resisting. It said _stop resisting_ and that's what you were doing, weren't it, you were fucking _resisting._

Did this on purpose, didn't you? Bet you did. You must've. Pictured shit like this plenty of times. Must've been trying. Must've wanted it. Must've wanted it real bad to try to _kill_ the bastard, and look at that, look at what the fuck you've done. You happy? You happy you done it now?

You were resisting.

You were _resisting._

Fuck, oh fuck, oh _god._

Tommy's gone. Dunno where. Dead drac at your feet. And you - 

You gotta get outta here. Gotta get outta the city. Gotta get clean out while you _still can._

You can...you can get out.

Can still get out.

You gotta get out.

C'mon.

C'mon, focus. Swallow, scrub your face in your hands, blink, _breathe_ it out, motherfucker. This ain't the worst thing you ever seen. This ain't even the worst thing you ever done, you bet. You done worse, yeah? Probably. Sure. Why not? 

Right away, you start laughing. Stuttery, jagged sounds that shiver outta your mouth and _fuck,_ you're so _fucked_ here but laughing at the bad shit is normal for you, yeah? Means you're doing fine. Means you find this _funny_ or something, you dunno. Don't matter. Don't matter. You gotta get up even if your legs're shaking like you ain't eaten in days and you feel like you're gonna barf. Bile's pressing up against the backs of your teeth, foul-tasting and tarry. You spit it onto the concrete.

Can't leave yet. You can't. You gotta...

No. No, no, no, no, _no_ , please, c'mon, please, don't - please - 

You have to.

_Can't -_

You have to. 

You wanna get out? _You wanna get out?_ You have to.

You gotta peel that white suit jacket from the drac's still-warm body. You gotta pick up that raygun and hold onto it. You don't got anything else to your name. No monster arms. No supplies. Nothing but what you can run with. It's gonna be hot in the desert. All you got is clothes so old you don't remember when you last washed them, don't remember the last time you didn't sleep in them.

You wanna get outta here?

The drac looks outta place, lying there without its jacket and gun. You almost wanna lift that mask off it, 'cause you ain't never seen what they look like underneath. Seen the little slivers of skin peeking out from under the flap of mask at the neck, sure, but what're they like under it? They just normal people?

Wrong time to think it. Gonna be sick. Fuck, gonna be sick. You gotta move.

You pull that jacket on even if it makes you shiver and it hangs off you like a robe 'cause it's so big. The gun's still warm in your hand, slightly too large for your grip. You seen guns like this before. All the dracs have the same model. BL/ind sells 'em in vending machines for way pricey. The model's called the Individual.

You can't keep standing around waiting for shit to change. Ain't gonna change.

Now move.

Now _move._

You're shorter than any drac that ever was, you bet, but maybe the white'll give some of the others pause. Give you some protection from the desert sun. You can make for the city line, take a straight shot, maybe. It ain't much of a plan. It's all you got. No clue where Tommy went. He up and split without fulfilling his fucking half of the deal so you're on your own. He was your one shot outta here. It'd sting more if you weren't used to that by now. Just got one of those faces, you guess. Should've made sure he'd hold up his end of the fucking bargain, huh? Shouldn't've paid the bastard up front.

Gotta keep moving, is all. Gotta fucking keep moving. The door he was heading to, the one at the foot of the staircase, it's locked tight. You yank and wrench at it but it don't budge.

Got nowhere to go. Gotta keep moving, but where the fuck to?

What's the problem, huh? What's the motherfucking problem? You hurt people before. You fucked things up before. You ain't never killed a guy, sure, but it was only a matter of time, yeah?

Just - just didn't _mean_ to.

Didn't mean to? Oh, what? Didn't fucking _mean_ to? When's that ever fucking mattered?

Your dad was right. Bastard was fucking _right._

Can't take Tommy's route. What's that leave you? City line's the most heavily guarded part of the city. You know that. You ain't never seen it before, but you know it 'cause they teach you that in school. They teach you that the cameras there're always on. They're gonna see you going. So what if they do? They're gonna see what you did to that drac anyway. They're gonna see that re-education won't be enough this time. Gonna chuck you into Juvie. Gonna scrub that ink from your skin. Gonna rip you apart piece by piece 'till there ain't nothing left.

Not gonna happen. They wanna kill you, they can do it the old-fashioned way. You'll fucking _fry your brains out_ before they lay their fucking hands on you.

Lobby ain't at the edge of the city but it's close. The streets're all locked down. Your grip on the gun's shaking and you gotta adjust your fingers so they can hold onto it. You ain't never shot a gun in your life.

Contingents of exterminators go trooping past and you crouch to avoid every one. Dracs go trailing behind them, muttering words that don't make any damn sense. You duck behind garbage cans. You huddle in the corners of alleys and hug your arms tight around yourself 'cause the jacket's all blinding white and you bet it makes you stand out like a fucking ghost. Great fucking idea taking a drac's jacket, right? About as good as any of your other fucking ideas. You bet you glow in the dark. Feels like it. Feels like flies're crawling all under your skin. Heat digging underneath your eyelids. You killed a drac. You _killed_ a drac. Not even thirteen, and you fucking killed a drac. Not even a teen and already a murderer.

That really a surprise?

No time to go back to the house. Dad'd stop you if he sees you, or he'll lock you in your room again. No time to go back for your fixed-up headphones, your thumb-drive of music, your parts and pieces that you gathered up from dead droids over the years. Gotta bolt now. Now, while you still can.

You can see it just up ahead. Dead ahead. No mistaking the drape of urban decay fanned out, mounds of ancient tech like dead bodies piled on top of each other. Old storage containers heaped up against the walls. Old streetlamps tilted at wild angles. The places where the city ain't sprang up into its full splendor 'cause the ongoing, forever-advancing expansion effort ain't reached that part of the desert yet. Already breaking more rules. You're in a part of the city that ain't done yet, still under construction. Civvies can get fined for that shit.

You could run. Can't tell if there's a straight shot outta the city from here. Bet there's gaps in the surveillance, but there's so many goddamned patrols moving around. The city walls blot out the horizon but you can hear some fucking distant _rumbling_ , like bombs going off. Could never hear that shit when you're inside the city all proper. The buildings and walls insulate all the outside sound from sensitive civilian ears and shit.

Need an opening. Need a break in the patrols of whitejackets and the groups of dracs moving in and out. They're really fucking moving in and out, huh? Whatever they're doing, it's big. Never seen 'em move in big droves like this before. Or maybe you just never been this far off the deep end and you never seen it 'cause you weren't looking.

You'll never blend in. Stolen jacket don't mean shit. You're too short. You'll stand out. Fuck. Fuck, what now? You need something to draw them all away. Something to make the bastards look the other way while you get outta here.

You look up and there's a patch of gray-black sky, the night stained with smoke and tinting the air all thick and brown. You breathe in and it's like breathing a mouthful of heat. No wonder they're making everybody stay in. What the fuck's going on out there? What the fuck's going on that's so big it's leaching on into the city like this?

Not gonna find out sitting in here.

You need a way out. Need a fucking way out. C'mon, c'mon, what've you got here? There's streetlamps. There's stacks of televisions torn with static. There's old crates sealed shut. Probably need a crowbar just to get that shit open. There's...what else you got? You gotta raygun. You gotta raygun you ain't never used before 'cause you picked it off a dead drac, you piece of _shit,_ you idiot, you dumbass, you - _focus._ Shut up. C'mon. Later. Do that later. Can make yourself bleed for it later. You fucked this up already so keep fucking it up, yeah? You're good at that. Keep fucking it up. Do what comes natural.

What do you got? You got streetlamps. You got old crates you can't open. You got televisions. Televisions dead and not wired up to nothing. Only static on their screens. Static and the weird snowy effect that makes it look like there's ghosts of faces buzzing through. Fuck if you know how to make any of them work. Don't got buttons on their frames or nothing.

But they do got wires.

You know wires. You know wires, don't you, you dumb fuck? You fucking know wires. So c'mon, grab one of those things, rip it open, and scrape its guts out. You know how to do this. You know which wires make the currents go where they gotta go. Nobody taught you. Just figured it out for yourself. Ain't good for much but you're good for _this._ Real fucking good at breaking shit and the fucking _best_ at breaking shit in _all the right ways._ Gotta tear at the tangle of wires and you got nothing on hand but these and the raygun that don't belong to you, but that's a _raygun_ we're talking here. That's heat and light right there.

Don't gotta wait any longer. No time to do anything but react, react _now._ Shoot it. You shoot the fucking television and you keep shooting until the plastic and wire casings catch fire. If anybody hears the sound, they don't come running. Joke's on them. They _should_ come running. You kick over another television and aim for the place where the plug meets the plastic composite casing of the back and you shoot until _that_ catches fire too.

Don't take long for the rest of the tower of the stuff to catch alight. Now you're hearing shouts. Yells. Sounds of footsteps.

You get gone, but you don't head for the city line yet. You gotta stoke these fucking flames here. You head to your next tower of piled-up televisions and junk and open fire until those're ablaze, and then you move on to the next, and the next. The air stinks of melting plastic and smoke. You breathe that corrupted air and _don't fucking laugh,_ you bitch. Save it. Save it. Don't fucking ruin this now. You gotta move. Gotta move or they'll see you.

More and more of them're closing in. Can see groups of them pulling back from the perimeter, moving for the smoke being belched up into the fucking sky. Some fucking maniac's set parts of the streets on fire! Man, guess they better stop that guy, huh? What kinda freak arsonist would try to burn down their perfect fucking city, huh?

You're running now. There's these shouts at your back, people yelling for water, for some kinda way of stifling this heat before it gets too outta hand. Everybody's turning around. Words like _bombs_ and _terrorists_ and _analog_ and you dunno what the fuck they're talking about but that don't matter. What matters is you've gotta view of the city line. You can see it. Places where the underground currents of electricity have opened up and there's still wires and pipes and shit being laid in, places where the walls're getting knocked down so they can move them back and expand the city some more. There's still stragglers, dracs milling around the perimeter. But you ain't slowing down.

You're running so fucking fast that your breath's coming up in tight little gasps. Feels like your lungs're about to implode. Gun's in your hand, fingers all sweat-slick. Feels like it's gonna slide outta your grip and go crashing to the ground. Hold tight to it. C'mon. C'mon. Keep going. _Keep running._

A drac sights you. It shouts something but you can't pick apart what it's supposed to be saying. You're sprinting dead on. You're making for the fucking walls.

It's probably saying something along the lines of _stop resisting._ Let's take a guess here: _return to your homes,_ right? Fuck that. You don't gotta home, never have. Closest thing to it was the Lobby, and that ain't nobody's home.

Now there's shots boiling up above your head. Don't care. Don't turn around. You don't stop. You don't fucking stop. _Keep going._

You're bolting for the fucking line and when you clear it you don't feel nothing but the way that the ground softens underfoot, going from pavement to sliding sand that makes you slip and nearly fall flat on your fucking face. Laser bolts light up the fucking way. The sky's a purple canvas, freckled with faint motes of light you ain't never seen when you were inside the city proper. Fingers of orange light have worked their ways into the undersides of the clouds, like the air's on fire. Never seen a thing like that before either.

Can't stop and fucking stare at some real pretty lights right about now, can you? Fuck off. C'mon. You gotta go. You gotta go now, 'cause the dracs're still chasing you and they're still shooting. You left smoke and fire right behind you, burned some of their shit up. They ain't catching you now. Not when you're finally _out._

You ain't stopped running when the first laugh bubbles up and out into the freezing-ass night. Fuck, it's cold. Your blood's pounding quick but the wind's like knives on your skin. You can handle that, yeah? Ain't so different from needles on your ribs. You can handle it. You better _fucking_ handle it. You've had worse. You've had worse. Your dad nearly split your skull open on the fucking door. You lost all your baby teeth premature when the other kids dashed your face against the concrete. You can't handle a little cold? Fuck off.

Bright light's getting fainter behind you. Fuck, you're gonna _laugh_ harder than you ever laughed before. There's still blasts of raygun fire fizzling at the sand behind you but they're getting fainter 'cause you're running like a fucking _bolt_ of light yourself, _ha._ Can't catch you. Ain't none of them can catch you.

You keep fucking running 'till the laughter gets too much to bear and your feet hit an uneven angle in the sand. You go spinning down a shallow slope and you lie there staring up at the fucking sky, laughing hard enough for your gut to start aching. Fuck. Feels like you're gonna die. You're gonna die, _ha!_

The sky's all lit up like the fire you set to get out here. You lie there wheezing in the sand and trying not to choke on the sick, sharp little giggles that come shivering out your gullet.

Can't seem to stop it. Never could. Whatever.

They can't make you out here. Can't make you do shit out here.

You're never going back there. Never again. Nobody could hold you back. Not dracs, not whitejackets, not Tommy's lying _bitch_ ass when he turned tail and fucked you over.

You made it.

You're out in the Zones.

Your head's swimming with smoke and not enough air and the fact that you just ran farther and faster than you ever ran in your life, but you made it. You die now, you'll still've died outside of Battery City, seeing the real world with its real sky. Starlight shining so fucking faint through screens of smoke. The orange tongues of sunrise or fire peeking up over the horizon. Looks kinda pretty. Sand under your back is firm and cold.

It's so fucking cold.

"Bitchin'," you say aloud.

And you black the fuck out.

****

**\--**

****

**ravenous. loaded. you know better than anybody:  
i'm bigger than god.**

**\--**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to attempt to set a goal for myself and shoot for this fic to be five parts, hopefully all more reasonably paced than my last work. This is a tentative number, though - it might end up shrinking or expanding depending on how I manage to pace the rest of this thing.
> 
> **Author's Notes:**
>
>> 1\. In case anyone happened to be unaware - yes, laughter as a marker of distress and as a defense mechanism is a very real thing. Fun Ghoul might not be especially equipped to recognize it, but not a single instance of laughter or seeming delight throughout this chapter was actually one hundred percent genuine on his part.
>> 
>> 2\. It is not recommended that you attempt your own stick and poke tattoos without knowing exactly what it is you're doing. Tattooing resources aren't particularly plentiful in the Zones or in Battery City and so people make do. Please do not follow their example.
>> 
>> 3\. As ever, there are quite a few references scattered throughout this work. The Lobby tattoo artist is an original character whose name is a reference to [25C-NBOMe](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/25C-NBOMe), a psychedelic drug known colloquially as "Pandora." Some of you may recognize a line displaced from the _Next to Normal_ musical. There's also a brief shout-out to the "calm down" track off of EDEN's second studio album, _no future._ The poem interspersed between the line breaks is "The Mania Speaks" by Jeanann Verlee; it is not my composition. Both the title of this fic and its chapter header are paraphrased quotes from the illustrious writings of Pete Wentz.
>> 
>> 4\. I'm not especially good at drawing tattoos, but I did do my best to track the acquisition of each tattoo in this first stretch of Ghoul's story. Here are some rough renditions of Ghoul's [first](https://i.imgur.com/2uzC0hv.png), [second](https://i.imgur.com/cbLUkiR.png), and [third](https://i.imgur.com/Kw0ex3H.png) tattoos.
>> 
>> 5\. And lastly, a fun fact: I did a little bit of math regarding this chapter. Out of its 25k-ish words, pure unadulterated swearing accounts for a little over 2.5% of them.


	2. the eighty-sixed nomad and the fifty-four steps to enlightenment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prior to reading the second part of this installment, please be advised of the following content warnings. First of all, you may assume that many of the warnings listed at the beginning of this work will remain in effect. In particular, the self-loathing, intrusive thoughts, and disordered thinking present in the narration all remain prevalent for much of this chapter. The warning for emetophobia and vomiting remains in full effect. There are a few oblique references to Ghoul's history with abuse, and this very much affects how he interprets certain situations, as well as how he reacts to them. One scene deals with an underage character smoking.
> 
> This chapter also deals with canon-typical violence, some of which is graphic and some of which pertains to handling dead bodies. Some of this violence is both carried out by and done to very young characters, and some of it does trigger vague flashbacks and parallels to child abuse done by a parental figure. These associations are mild and are kept non-graphic. There are a few mild instances of self-harm, both indirect and otherwise, as well as at least one instance of a panic attack. There's one offhand reference to animal death, but it's kept brief.

**\--**

**i am just one man with many crises.  
we take/make the best monsters.  
we semi-civilize them.**

**\--**

"Are they dead?"

"They _look_ dead."

Something nudges you in the ribs.

Ow.

"Hey. _Hey._ You dead?"

Another nudge. Fucking _shit_ okay that hurts. Everything hurts. Muscles feel shivery and loose and you dunno where the fuck you are but it sure as shit ain't your bed and it ain't the house and that ain't exactly a _problem_ , really, 'cause anything's better than the house. Lobby? Gotta be. Except the Lobby's never been this fucking hot.

God, it's fucking hot. It's so fucking hot that trying to open your eyes feels like it'll crack the skin of your face. Better not.

Except some fucking prick keeps _jabbing_ you with their foot.

"Bastard's not getting up, I guess."

"Man, they're about dried anyway. Just grab their shit and go."

Hands on your arms like hands trying to grab you and that snaps you awake like a laser blast to the ass. You're up and twisting around to kick the bastard - _thinks he can take you?_ Not dragging you back to the fucking closet, not knocking you out the fucking window, not taking you back to re-education, not _fucking_ doing this again! Not again, not again, not fucking again. Thinks he can get the drop on you? Thinks he can _take_ you? You're fucking four feet of fire and chemicals and bad _fucking_ decisions and you ain't been scared of him for _years,_ motherfucker -

" - shit! Shit, shit!" 

Hands're flying off you and you're coming at him. Gonna rip him apart. Gonna rip him the _fuck_ apart. You're through with him, through with his shit, gonna fuck him up, gonna tear him to _pieces_ \- 

He catches you by the back of your jacket and yanks you back. Jacket's too big. You slip on outta that shit, tear forward, nearly fucking fall flat on your face when you stumble with the momentum of it - _shit._

"God, log off! Log off, motherfucker!"

Laughter. "Bastard's still got some _fight_ in 'em!"

The light's bright and hazy in your eyes. Sun and sand and you're all stiff like you been sleeping on concrete. Dust under your hands. You get your breath under control and then there's a hand fisting into the back of your shirt and yanking you back but you're not fucking going back, are you? You said you weren't going fucking _back_ 'cause you ain't in the city anymore, you remember that now, and like hell you're gonna let them take you back now. You've got something in your hand, got something with enough weight to let you torque around and _fuck_ someone up with it. Your swing is wild and uncoordinated but it connects with something _hard_ and the hand releases you with a strangled yelp.

"Fuck! All right, all right!" There's hands up, palms out, someone backing away. You get a decent look at it and hell if it ain't a drac, ain't a whitejacket, and ain't your dad.

'Cause you ain't in the city anymore. Right. Shouldn't've forgotten a thing like that, huh? God. Dumbass. Get it together.

Whoever they are, they ain't in white or black or gray. None of those neutral tones that the city up and drapes everybody in. Beige skin, head swathed in some kinda scarf patterned with skulls and bones, clothes with patchworked colors. A shirt with greens and reds and purples swirled together wildly in lurid streaks, heavy boots with buckles and zippers and chains, a thick vest of blue denim. Ain't like nothing you ever seen in your life. Makes your eyes _ache_ with how vivid it all is compared to the way things was back in Bat City.

They gotta be a zonerunner. Nothing else they could be, right?

They got your jacket in their hands. It hangs loose and white, standing out stark against their multicolored _everything._ They're taller than you, got gloves without fingers on their hands, but you dunno how old they are. Pandora's age, maybe. Hard to say. There's a bruise darkening their cheek from the clout you gave 'em.

"You got your ass beat by a fucking kid." More laughter. The other zonerunner's shorter and darker, pink hair yanked back into a tight dome of a swinging ponytail. There's ink unfurled up all along one arm in bright spots of green and gold. It's brighter than anything you ever seen. Brighter by a mile than the clothes they wear, an ensemble of dusty red-brown. Didn't even know ink could get that shiny. It's goddamn beautiful.

"I didn't get my _ass_ beat," says the Zone-rat in the scarf. "Fucker startled me 's all. They're fuckin' armed, all right?"

 _They're fuckin' armed._ Ain't wrong there. You still got that gun in your hand. Almost forgot you had it, but sure enough, that's what you brained the fucker with when you took that swing at them.

Just made it out here and you're still a hell of a dumbass, ain't you? Gotta gun and everything, but all you've used it for is to set shit on fire and smash people's faces. The fuck kinda city rat are you, huh?

"And all for some drac drobe?" The zonerunner with the tattoos don't seem to be worried about the gun. They're still laughing.

"It ain't a - " The rat in the scarf stares at the bleached white jacket for a second, then curses and throws it to the sand like it were something burning. "You kiddin' me?"

They're talking back and forth like you ain't standing right there. Maybe it's just 'cause you're such a wildcard, such a fucking freak, something they dunno how to handle. Wild beast that snaps at hands when they get laid on you. Flown the fuck outta Bat City and still raw and rabid from the change. Better get back before it strips the flesh from your ribs, swallows you whole.

"Undergrad, huh?" says the tattooed rat. Hard to get a real good read on what they're supposed to... _be,_ either one of 'em. The Zone-rat in the tattoos has gotta thin voice, kinda scratchy, but nothing about them screams one thing or the other. Bat City don't like it if you don't stay in their nice neat little lines and keep presenting the way you should. 'S why your dad gives you shit for growing out your hair, 'cause you're supposed to be a boy so you gotta act like one. _Gave_ you shit for it anyway, 'cause that motherfucker don't have any say in what you do now. Not anymore. Never did, if you're honest.

You dunno what they mean by _undergrad_ but that ain't new. You always been the dumbest fuck in the room. Always have been. If nothing else, you can make a pretty good guess.

"Hello? You spinning a cycle or something?" The one in the scarf laughs, high and nervous. They're looking at you again. "You even speak English? _Nihongo hanasemasu ka?"_

No, wait, you know the words - you know the fucking words there. Half the classes in Bat City're taught in Japanese.

"Yeah, I fuckin' know it," you ratchet on out. Words are high and rough and raspy with thirst. C'mon. C'mon, shape up. What're you out here? You ain't nobody out here. Weren't nobody in the city either. Use it. So _use_ it. Survived just fine down in the Lobby. You can do it again here, yeah? You better. You _better._

"They speak!" says the kid with the tattoos.

"City undergrad for sure," the other agrees.

"Bat Rat."

 _Shut the fuck up._ Saying it's likely to get your ribs kicked in, your jaw cracked on the pavement. Only there ain't any pavement out here. There ain't nothing but sand and heat and sun, burning steadily down on your skin. UV rays roasting you red. And you gotta _gun._

You gotta motherfucking gun, and you can get away with it so you say it aloud.

"Shut the fuck up."

That stops them both dead. Laughter trails off, and they look at you. Then the rat in the scarf snorts, kicks your stolen drac jacket so that amber-colored sand's thrown up over it.

"Keep your fuckin' city-ass drobe," they mutter. "First crew you hit's gonna ghost you anyway. After they smoked Zone Seven last night, you Bat Rats ain't gonna last a day out here."

 _They smoked Zone Seven._ Dunno what that means. Might have something to do with all the chatter that helped you get outta the city in the first damn place, or the smoke that still hangs like a screen in the sky. Pretty sure it does.

"C'mon, XO." The tattooed kid nudges the one in the scarf with one heavily inked arm. "Bat Rats never have anything worth taking anyway."

They start to back away. You let 'em go, mostly 'cause your throat's scratchy from the smoke and 'cause you're feeling real damn thirsty, and snapping a drac's neck by tumbling down some steps is a whole hell of a lot different than shooting a warm body just 'cause. They were picking you over 'cause they figured you were dead. No crime in that. You'd do the same thing.

Don't mean you wanna bother either one with your company.

So you made it outta the city. What next? What fucking next? Didn't figure you'd get this far. Figured that getting _out_ would be enough, and fuck knows what'd happen to you next. It's hot and bright and there's smoke in the air, makes breathing harder the longer you sit out here. Probably should get cover, huh? Yeah. Your skin's gonna start burning and shit.

Ain't nothing for you to do but pick a direction and start walking. The city's at your back. So as long as you're moving _away_ from it, don't much matter where you end up, and you don't much care.

**\--**

**we put bears in suits on tricycles.  
we keep wolves warm from the winter in hen houses.**

**\--**

First place you hit is some kinda station. Looks pretty old, pretty beat down, but you been walking for hours now and everything fucking hurts. It ain't the sharp persistent pain of getting your ribs near snapped or having a broken nose or shit like that. This is a new beast. It's a dull ache that falls all over your shoulders. The way your skin feels sun-dried and leathery. The way your lips bead with the old-penny taste of blood, cracking under the sun. One draculoid's jacket ain't much in the way of protection against the radiation showering you from the fucking sky. They spoiled you rotten in Bat City. Everything was the same-ass temperature and you never had to worry about heat-rash or sunburn. Not the case out here.

There's sand in your cheap black city shoes, the laces coming undone. You give up on trying to tie and retie them and unwind them from your shoes instead. Got nothing to do with a pair of laces but you don't have shit out here other than what you got on hand so you tie them together and loop them 'round your neck so you can keep track of them, 'cause your shitty city shorts don't got any pockets.

Station looks empty. Might be there's something inside you could use. Like, say, _water._ God, what you'd give for some fucking water. Weren't never a problem in the city, but the heat and dust weren't a problem neither. You figured it'd suck, but you didn't know how _much_ it'd suck. Standing in the shade under the awning of this station's enough to make you wanna cry with relief.

There's hoses with nozzles hooked up to pumps. A busted neon sign that looks about dead in the window. There's color sprayed to the walls, tags of random letters and symbols you dunno the significance of. Words like _DRAC IS WHACK_ and _NOBODY HOME_ in splahes of different hues. Like the zonerunners' clothes, it all hurts your eyes, it's so bright. Might just be the heatwaves. Could always be the heatwaves.

The pumps smell all strong. Smell like...fuck, that's _gas._ This is a fucking pump station. Place for motor vehicles to roll up and fill their tanks. You remember that. One of the few fucking things in school that was actually worth learning. They didn't teach much about it, said that these cars was just too damn inefficient and not nearly as sleek and reliable as the floating-ass Bat City cars too pricey for anybody but the very richest BL/ind employees, the very _highest_ motherfuckers on the chain. That's all they ever talked about the past for. To tell you that it sucked and that things're so much _better_ now.

Things're so much fucking _Better._

Sure. Sure.

The pumps smell sharp and heavy. Dunno how to put a name to the reek coming outta them, but you like it better than anything you could smell in the city. Smells all dirty and greasy and like the stink'll cling to you, like it'll scrub the city slick off you. There's racks of old mags hung out just outside the station, leaned up near the windows. The door's plastic and see-through, swinging slightly on its hinges. It's clear enough to see through and get a good look at the place inside, and it looks pretty trashed. Who knows how many Zone-rats've been through the area before you have? Who knows how long this place has even been _out_ here?

Inside might be cooler than outside. You got nowhere to go besides. Who's gonna stop you from picking at a couple mags from the racks and heading on in? Nobody. Fucking _nobody_ is who. 

It's dead quiet inside. The city's packed tight with too many people all up in your grill all hours of the fucking day. In the city proper it's whitejackets and dracs getting up in your business or doctors trying to set you straight or other kids at school giving you shit for being a freak. In the Lobby it's people looking at you and deciding you're an easy mark 'cause you're just a fucking kid, and them trying to steal whatever carbons you got on you.

Out here, though? Nobody. Nobody for fucking _miles,_ you bet. Could almost be nice. Could be real fucking nice, actually. Ain't never been alone in your life, not really. Could get used to it. 

Your stomach's in fucking knots and your throat's all stripped but there ain't anything in the way of food or water in here (you check every fucking nook and cranny), unless you count the big white boxy BL/ind vending machine sitting out back. It's packed full of protein blocks and clean water but you didn't have time to grab a stash of c's before you were tearing outta the city so you're shit outta luck there. Jostling the machine with your tiny, shitty frame don't shake anything loose. Gotta leave it. Fucking _aches_ to leave it. You don't got any objections to dying of thirst but dying of thirst with perfectly drinkable water _right the fuck there_ is downright insulting.

Mostly you're just real goddamn _tired._ Head's buzzing with thirst and you ain't really slept unless you count passing out in the fucking sand out past the city line, so maybe you're due for an actual fucking _nap._ There's no one around. You could swing it, probably.

Head won't shut the fuck up. Never does. Twitches your legs, shoots pins and needles up the rope of your spine, makes you toss and shake and wanna break your fist on a wall. Taps like spider legs on the inside of your skull until you gotta grit your teeth and - _fine. Fine._ So you gotta flip open a mag, card through it, flick through articles about cars and motors and engines. Some of them are almost even readable. It's fine, dark words about spark plugs and valves and sumps that tune you out and shutter your eyes. You pass out curled up behind the counter, back to the wall. Always keep your back to the wall.

You're awake again before you got any time to register that you've conked out in the first damn place. There's a humming in the distance. Maybe it's just your head. Head's still ringing. Everything's still ringing. God.

Nah, it's getting louder. Louder and more pronounced and you can hear it, can _really_ hear it. It's getting louder 'cause it's getting closer and it's getting closer 'cause it ain't a rattle on the inside of your skull. It's getting louder 'cause it's a _motor._

Fuck.

You're laid out on the cracked linoleum behind the stripped-bare counter and you scramble upright, old mags sliding to the ground in a rustle and slap of plasticky pages. You gotta get up. No idea who's coming. Could be dracs. They send parties and shit out here, right? You ain't _that_ far from the city. Maybe they're gonna want you back. _Fuck - you? Really?_ Shut up. You still got your jacket on, still got your gun - your gun you ain't never shot at anybody before. Can worry about that later. You gotta get out, fast, before anyone comes looking.

You're outta the station and ducking around the wall a second before a car pulls up outside one of the pumps. For half a second you can see it - tires caked in reddish dust. The hood of a car, glinting dark and steely in the fucking sunlight. Looks goddamn beautiful. Looks _so_ goddamn beautiful you wanna - _focus!_ Get the fuck back, _hide._ You dunno who these people are, what they want. What the fuck is wrong with you?

Car doors open and booted feet hit the tarmac and you're back around the corner. There's voices. Don't sound like dracs. They're using whole _words_ and shit.

" - been driving for like, ten hours straight." You risk a peek around the station corner and the speaker's climbing outta the car and slamming it shut. Dark hair hangs in a shining curtain down their back. They ain't looking at you. "Zone One's probably crawling with dracs."

"Didn't see any, did you?" The other one's got vivid orange hair that sticks out in disheveled spikes. "We're good so far. No dracs, 'n they won't drop bombs so close to the city. Not after last night."

"They'll drop _mortars,_ Nico. Then we'll be fucked."

"We weren't on the fucking frontlines. It's nothing to do with us."

"You think that's gonna matter? We got the masks and everything - they ain't gonna care whether or not we're 'joys. They'll ghost us for _looking_ like 'joys! "

 _Joys._ The fuck is a _joy?_ Don't think they mean just plain old _happy,_ though you figure they could. Bat City hates that shit. Keep your emotions reined in and whatever the fuck. So why've they got masks? Masks're for dracs, yeah?

"Don't hear _you_ thinkin' up any bright ideas, Pepper," says the rat with the orange hair. Nico, you guess. Means the one with the long hair would be _Pepper._ Dunno what the fuck kinda names _those_ are, but considering the names you heard back in the Lobby, it don't matter much in the end.

The voices fade to the sound of the door swinging open and shut. If they're looting the place or they know something about what's stored there that you don't or _what,_ it don't matter and you don't care. There's no telling what they'll do if they see you and given your budding track record with people out here and your track record with people in general you ain't keen on finding out, so fuck it - you gotta get outta here. Maybe hunker down 'till they leave? They're gonna leave, yeah?

The car's just sitting there. The windows're rolled down. Radio chatter breezes out through it, intercut with static.

Maybe they got food in there.

Maybe they got _water._

That does it. You dart out and you make for the open windows. You're sneaky. You're _fast._ Fuckers won't know you was there. Swear to god, there's bottled water right there in the front seat and you only gotta strain your too-short arms to reach for it, and - 

"Hey!"

Fuck.

Don't waste no time. You ditch the effort and bolt but your head's still buzzing and you ain't as fast as you could be. You're so goddamn thirsty. You ain't eaten in you dunno how long. Ain't had any water in you _dunno_ how long. You're gonna pass out here. Gonna wipe out and dry out.

Shot of adrenaline makes for a good substitute for whatever you need to keep your pistons firing. You're trying to sprint but there's the pounding of footsteps at your back to match the pounding in your fucking _head_. You make it 'round the corner, sight down the glaring white of the vending machine - 

"Little _bitch!"_ Hands on the collar of your jacket again, _again,_ it's _always_ the fucking jacket maybe it's the white or maybe it's the size of the thing but it don't matter nothing much matters but getting away from the fuck trying to hold you down but they're bigger than you and taller than you and stronger than you so you can't.

Rip yourself outta the jacket again, c'mon! You wriggle free from it but then there's a hand catching you 'round your collarbone and then fisting at the front of your shirt and they _slam_ you up against the vending machine. Like being pinned to the wall. _You're not going back, not ever._ Ears're ringing. Ears're ringing _louder_ than they were. Fuck.

"What'd you take?" Yellow teeth bared in your face. Orange hair spiked up in jagged peaks. "What'd you _fucking take?"_

 _First crew you hit's gonna ghost you._ That must be what _this_ is. Everybody out here travel in packs or something?

"Nico, cool it!" The Zone-rat with the long hair's at Nico's back now. "They didn't take anything. I checked. I checked!"

Nico presses you up against the vending machine with their eyes dark and burning. They got these dark freckles peppered across the bridge of their nose. It's weird. Looks wrong against the clay color of their face.

"Bastard's wearin' a drac jacket, or didn't you notice?" snarls Nico, not looking away from you. "After last night, you wanna tell me that don't mean anything? Y'said this place was crawlin' with 'em!"

"They're just a kid!" Pepper grabs their buddy's hand and tries to pull at their grip around your shirtfront but Nico wrenches you back up against the machine and your head _clunks_ on the plastic. Fucking _hurts,_ that shit. You can hear the bottles and packages of whatever the fuck in the vending machine rattling against each other.

Well that's a fucking idea, ain't it?

You start laughing.

"Yeah, _Nico!"_ Ain't so hard to mouth off. Got good at it back in Bat City. The one thing you always been good at. You're laughing already and it comes so goddamn easy to you 'cause you know how to be a little shit so you keep on laughing 'till your mouth's stretched into a bright, barbed-wire grin. "What, y'scared of a fuckin' _kid?"_

Nico cracks you across the face for that one. _Ha ha,_ god. Like that's the worst you ever had. Your old man can hit harder than that. The buzz of adrenaline's already kicking your heart back to life, throbbing lighter fluid into your veins against a rib cage painted slick with rot. Feel sharper already! Who needs water? Who needs protein? All you need to get yourself going is a fist to the face and some sharp words. _Thanks_ for that, Dad!

Your teeth cut into your cheek and you can taste liquid copper dribbling down your lower lip. Pressed up against the vending machine but nothing's moving up there - so what's it gonna take?

Jesus Christ, you're an idiot. You gotta _gun,_ don't you?

You draw it.

Pepper yelps. "Nico!"

Hand on your wrist now. Twisting, trying to rip it outta your grip. You kick at the bastard. Catch 'em between the legs. They swear and hit you again and this time something in your nose _cracks_ \- how many times does that make it? Fuck, like it matters any - and the vending machine jostles at your back. 

Nico slams you a hard one in the gut and you can feel yourself curling on yourself, gasping. You lose the grip on your gun. It drops into the dust and Nico kicks it away. Sound buzzes out and you can't hear anything for _shit._

" - c'mon, c'mon. They're just a kid, c'mon," Pepper's saying when the world pops back into focus.

"We were just kids when we started out here," says Nico. But they let you go and you drop and slide to the ground. Can't breathe. Oh, fuck, vision's gone all dotted.

"They didn't take anything," says Pepper. "We got what we came for anyway. _Vámonos,_ okay?"

Nico spits in the dust in front of you and says something you don't catch, mostly 'cause it don't sound Japanese or English. Then they're turned on their heel and the two of them tramp off. Few minutes later, there's the sound of the engine rumbling to life and tires scraping out over sand.

You're still coughing when you roll up onto your knees. You're leaking blood all over your fucking face. Pretty gross, but that don't matter much. Used to that. Your ribs feel kinda crushed from that wallop in the guts. Used to that too. Few steadying breaths and _fuck_ but you're getting kinda dizzy.

Shit. That's right.

You wrench around and peer at the vending machine, rummage at the flap at the bottom and - fucking _score._ Bottle of water's rolled out, free of charge. Unless you count getting a cracked nose and some crushed lungs a fair price. Sure. Why not? Back in the city, you could get broken arms and bruises for free. 'Least this time you're getting a little something out of it. And all it took was a little ribbing. Ha, get it? 'Cause your ribs feel _fucked._

It's a trip to suck down half that bottle in one go but right away you start to feel a little less like you're fucking dying, so that's nice. Kinda feel like you're gonna puke instead. Face still fucking hurts. You touch at your nose and it feels tender. Throbs the second you graze at it with your fingertips. Fuck.

The vending machine's oh-so-happy face stares cheerfully back at you.

"Fuck you," you say to nobody in particular. Maybe to the fucking face. Yeah, sounds about right. Fuck you, BL/ind. You got this red leaking outta your nose and down your lips and staining your teeth. Your drac jacket's turned out to've been a pretty shit choice in fashion, so you use it to mop up the most of the blood running down your face and wad it up to stick it under your arm. Maybe you can use it to bandage yourself or whatever. Can't waste the water on rinsing the congealing red and brown off your face and front, so the rest of it's gonna stick there for a while, you guess.

Fingers're all stained still. You glare at the BL/ind face and its stupid happy smile, rub reddened fingertips up against one of those eyes until it's all daubed out.

"Fuck you," you tell it again. "Fuck _you."_

Don't do much. Makes you feel better, kinda. Could be the water.

You got next to nothing to your name. A bloodstained draculoid jacket. Half a bottle of water. Shoelaces around your neck. The gun you took off the drac in Bat City, still lying in the dirt until you pick it up.

You make your way back into the station one last time before you head out into the dust. Don't gotta car, but you gotta pair of feet and some protection against the UV rays and some water to make it through the day.

And you got some car mags to pass the time. 'Cause why the hell not?

**\--**

**then we wonder why  
they maul the hearts of what we hold the most dear.**

**\--**

Don't take long to figure out that most people out here _do_ travel in packs. Good to know.

Smoke in the sky hangs heavy, dusting your shoulders with ash, and in the nights the horizon looks all lit up in orange and red. Even with rationing your water, it don't last you the day so by the time the night rolls around you ain't just hungry but your throat aches from thirst all the fuck over again. Gotta keep moving. Had worse in the Lobby. Probably. You find a crashed van to take cover in by the time the sun slinks down and it's fucking _cold_ as _shit_ but you ball yourself up and cram yourself underneath one of the seats and that makes it almost bearable.

Don't get much sleep that second night. Your nose still throbs when you wake up, your clothes stained with dried blood and itchy with sand, and now you're stiff all over. Head's starting to buzz again, like flies trapped in the bowl of your skull. As if the sound of your own thoughts ain't shitty enough.

Got nowhere to go but forward. Only way out is through. Second day ends up slightly better than the first when you find honest to god _shelter_ and it's got _people_ in it. They're pretty fucked up looking people, sure, but it ain't like you look much prettier. Who gives a shit if they're all scabbed-over skin and patchy, sunburned faces? They don't mind if you sleep in their rundown house 'long as you don't start any shit. Half of them're passed out, draped over old couches and sprawled on the ruined floors.

The house's gotta busted cooler full of water and a couple cans of dog food. You wake up early to grab as many of both that you can carry and bolt outta the place before anybody can wake up and give you shit for stealing.

PowerPup makes for decent eating. It's about the same quality as what you got back in Bat City half the time. Tastes like shit, but it's got enough protein and nutrients to make you feel a little less like you're gonna dry up on the fucking spot.

Nobody chases you. Nobody chased you after you left the city and nobody's chasing you now. Great to know that even in the ass-end of nowhere, you're still unwanted enough to be more or less fucking invisible. 

You keep up that pace until you hit a gas station and this one turns out to have someone at the front who's actually _running_ it. Gotta weird fucking mask on. Greenish and skull-shaped and you can't see the bastard's eyes through it. They tell you to scram. You tell them to make you. At that point they head back inside with a mumbled curse and that basically counts as a victory. They don't let you inside the place unless you can pay but even a little shelter from the raging desert sun's better than none. You hunker down as cars pass through and gas up and zonerunners head inside to buy water and cans of food. You listen to the buzz of the radios streaming outta open car windows and from the gas station counter. For three days, you're camped out there, watching everybody breeze in and out. Letting the world shuttle by.

Turns out that the mornings and evenings're the best time to get shit done. Trekking around in the relentless fucking sun ain't exactly a picnic. Pretty much everyone rides around in groups of two or more. Most of them'll wear masks so that BL/ind can't link their faces to who they were in the city. People out here, they ain't who they were in the city. They go by different names, fancier names. They wear color all over themselves, audacious as possible. They're killjoys and zonerunners and they carry guns and watch each other's backs. They keep radios on in their cars and on hand. You catch the sound of Mad Gear on those airwaves more than once. Only sound you recognize.

Your dad's probably found your illegal thumbdrive and turned it in by now. Maybe it got him a raise or some shit.

You ain't thinking about him.

You learn that you spent your second night out here with a group of folks that people call _waveheads,_ freaks who get high on the UV rays from the sky and can strangle you dead if you get in the way of their next fix. Didn't seem so dangerous when you chatted them up earlier, but what the hell do you know? You weren't in the way of their next fix.

There's DJs on the radios and they tell you what's what. They tell you when dracs're coming your way, when scarecrows're poking their heads outta their holes in Bat City, which Zones are hopping and which ones ain't. Some DJs're devoted to seemingly nothing but listing out the dead. Sounds like the night you got outta the city, something big happened out here. Something that vaporized all of Zone Seven. Blasted it all to hell. Didn't even know there was seven Zones, but now you know there ain't anymore.

Now it's six Zones. All over, you can find gas stations and bars and radio stations and sometimes fancier places than that. An orphanage, reportedly, somewhere in Zone Four. People'll be at each other's throats and they'll shoot each other's guts out over arguments, but some of 'em get along and they'll trade carbons or favors for shit you need. People get by. They live on the electricity and the heat and the sound and the color. The ones that don't get picked clean by whoever runs into their bodies first.

Ain't no wonder you never felt like you belonged in the city. Never was any place for you there. No room in the structure of Battery City for a freak with a tendency to destroy whatever you touch. It's a feeling kinda like the first time you ever heard Mad Gear - that you ain't the only rotten soul who's felt like this.

You learn all you can from your vantage point outside the station, but on day three you run outta food and water and you get caught stealing more from inside. The masked attendant don't chase you down or shoot you. They swear you out while you sprint out across the sand in the cool of the early evening, but you're trying not to laugh while you charge into the fucking sunset. Don't laugh. _Don't laugh,_ c'mon. Not funny. Not funny, and you'll lose your breath if you laugh too hard. Save your breath for _running,_ dumbass.

Can't make it very far on foot. You're gonna need a set of wheels, and sooner rather than later. Dunno how you're gonna get your hands on some. There was that truck you camped out in earlier, but it looked like it was stuck in the sand for _years_ and you dunno how you'd retrace your steps to that location anyway. 

Made the most of your theft though. Stole a stack of new auto magazines to go with your cans of dog food and bottled water. These ones're ancient, got all sorts of handy stuff in them. Old pictures of vintage cars, pre-war models with color and shine down their hoods. Fuck, imagine driving one of _those_ beauties. Imagine _that_ tearing through the Zones, kicking up dust and raising hell. It'd be goddamn beautiful.

You gotta keep yourself moving until you can't walk anymore. You reach that point in time to glimpse smoke on the horizon. Means people. Could mean the kinds of people who'll gut you and leave you for dead, but it could also mean the kinds of people who'll trade you something handy for your magazines. Dunno what the standards of what constitutes trading are out here. In the Lobby, people'd trade anything for anything if they needed it bad enough. Can't be so different out here, right? Even fewer rules out here.

The smoke's coming from the propped-open hood of a car, the engine hissing faintly. Goddamn but the thing looks seriously beaten down. Big truck, bigger than anything that'd ever be allowed in the city, and there's four Zone-rats gathered around the beast. One of them, a rat with fake-ass yellow hair stuck up in spikes, sighs. Another one sees you, tenses up. Damn near impossible to tell what any of them're supposed to, uh, be, you guess. Pretty sure at least one of them's a dude, but you know what? Not gonna go there. Ain't your business. They all got wild hair and they wear bright clothes. That's what matters.

"Heads up," mutters one of the rats. They got skin the color of old copper. Their hair's jet-dark, cut short, and their jacket - it's real pretty, is all. Deep blue and shiny. Bet it's made of something fancy, like leather.

At least these fuckers don't assume you're a drac. You been using your stolen jacket as a way to bundle up your supplies, in part 'cause you know some people out here will see white and shoot on reflex. Can't blame them. Live out here long enough, you bet you'd be the same. You was already the same in the Lobby.

"Keep moving, tumbleweed," says the yellow-haired rat sharply. They got a missing front tooth and rust-tinted skin. A streak over their cheek looks burned, a rash of brown gone red and peeling.

Guess you shouldn't've been hoping for a set of wheels. Should've been hoping for a set of wheels that _works._ Steam's curling out from the engine, but if you could guess, you'd say...

"You hear me, bitch?" That's Yellow Hair again, sounding angry now. "Keep movin'!"

Answer. Say something. Anything. Don't keep _standing_ there. Speak up. _Answer me when I talk to you._

"Car trouble?" Can hear the smirk in your tone. Fuck, can't dial that shit down, can you? Never could. Always so fucking _smug_. Always hated the sound of your own voice. Almost as bad as the sound of your laughter.

"What's it to you?" Fucker with the yellow hair's already got their gun out.

"I'm lookin' for a ride." Bet you look like a real trustworthy motherfuck, don't you? Hair grimy and growing out, looking battered and dirt-scuffed, old bruises staining your face, your nose still smashed and healing. Bet the grin completes the look. Who _wouldn't_ pick up your vagrant ass?

"Take a side street," snaps Yellow Hair. "Ours is out."

"No shit," mutters another rat leaning over the engine. This one's paler than the other two, but they got this bright auburn hair that don't look like it's dyed the way some of the others' do.

Busted car. How hard's a busted car to fix? Got more moving parts than a pair of headphones. More moving parts than a service droid? Fuck, probably. Thing's _bigger_ than a service droid. You could keep going. They're gonna make you keep going anyway. So, y'know, might as well. Got nothing to fucking lose. Never have anything to lose.

"Used to fix shit back in the city," you tell 'em, 'cause it's probably real damn obvious that you came from the city. Still fresh. _Undergrads,_ you guess people call 'em. "Bet I can help."

"Hell no," says Yellow Hair.

"Flash," mutters the rat in blue. They tug at Yellow Hair's arm, leans forward. Mutters something in their ear so quiet you don't catch it.

Yellow Hair pulls back and glowers at you. As if that'll scare you away. Be a hell of a lot weirder if people _didn't_ look at you like you was a smashed bug on the asphalt.

"You fix this, you ride with us to our next stop," says Yellow Hair - or Flash, or whatever the fuck their name is. You look like you care? You don't fucking care. "You break anything, we break _you._ Got that?"

Fuck, okay, you're trying not to laugh at that ultimatum. Tough fuck over here! Bet they think that's real fucking threatening, right? No, no, c'mon, stay with it. Salute them, try not to _bust out cackling_. You're taking them seriously, you swear. Real seriously. Flash snorts through their nose all derisive and shuffles back so you can get a clear look at the engines. Can feel their eyes on your neck. Can feel everyone's eyes on your neck. Don't matter any. You're used to getting stared at and whatever. Got that all the time in re-education. And hey, real improvement out here. Nobody's squinting at you through a camera, yeah? 

Focus. Fuck, c'mon. You're here to try and fix a fucking car, so it's time to fix a fucking car.

Yeah, so - lotta parts in here you don't recognize. Not at first. But you inhaled every word in those car mags and you fixed so many goddamn robots in Battery City that you've gotta have some clue, right? Fixed _so_ many goddamn robots. Don't actually know how many. But it's all the same shit. It's pieces and parts coming together. You peer at the engine and it's pretty clear what the deal is. It's too hot. There's white steam gushing off all the moving parts. One of the hoses running through the mess has a greenish leak.

Dunno what the fuck that part's called, but that don't matter. What matters is it's busted.

"Gonna have to replace this." You call it easy, run a finger along the edge of the hose. It's still kinda warm.

"We look like we got an auto-shop out here?" says Flash.

"Your engine's runnin' too hot," you snap at the bastard, since they're so fucking keen on picking a fight. _"This?_ This is the problem. You want your car runnin' again, you gonna need to replace it."

"We can't replace it without any _parts,"_ says the rat in the blue jacket. All right, if they're gonna be more fucking reasonable, you'll go on and direct all your concerns to them instead. 

"Y'got tape?"

"Tape?" 

"Something to patch it 'till you get someplace that has parts and shit."

"We don't have _tape."_

So you gotta be the fucking adult here. How old're these people? The youngest of 'em don't look _that_ much older than you but Flash is definitely closer to Pandora's age and here you are, saving the fucking day. Don't they all look so good and grateful. Your drac jacket's a mess but it don't matter for this. You tear a strip off it and start to tie it around the hose, tight as you can make it without kinking the tubing.

"Let the engine _cool,_ 'n then you can drive wherever." You ain't one hundred percent sure of that? Sounds like the right kinda thing to do, though. Overheating's the issue, so you gotta let the thing cool down first. "But drive somewhere that's gonna fix your ride."

"You some kinda expert?" sneers Flash. "How _old're_ you?"

"How old d'you think?" Gonna start getting that a lot, huh? Still gonna get that out here? Fuck it, okay. Some things're never gonna change.

"Flash." Again, the rat in blue saves you from getting slugged in the face, 'cause it looks like that's what _Flash_ here is really raring for. "Give it a rest."

"You don't give the _orders,_ Reverb," says Flash, but they fold their arms and don't go slugging you in the face. You're gonna call that a win. Gotta take 'em when you can.

"Deal's a deal," says the zonerunner in blue. Reverb, you guess. They turn to you. "If this thing runs, you can ride with us. That shiny?"

Presumably _shiny_ means _real fucking cool,_ so you grin and say that sounds pretty fucking shiny to you.

The four of 'em let you ride with 'em longer than they probably all planned, mostly 'cause you're the only one who knows how to patch their old beaten-up car whenever it runs down, which is _often._ The truck's a real piece of shit. Don't look much nicer than it runs. 

They introduce themselves to you in a round. "Flash" turns out to be short for "Flashburn." Reverb ain't short for anything. The redhead goes by the name of Bombshell Boy, and hell if you got any idea why, 'cept that he winces when the others introduce him so it's gotta be some kinda inside joke. The last of their number's a violet-haired girl who goes by the name of _Shot Glass._ She don't say much at first. All of them're older than you by at least a couple years. Ain't like that's saying much.

"And what d'we call _you?"_ says Flash, all sneers.

Easy question, easy answer.

You're Monster, same as you were in the Lobby. Might not have your monster arms anymore - _thanks_ for that, Tommy, you _fuck_ \- but you still got the wild look to you and it's only getting wilder the longer you stay out here. Your hair's getting to be kind of a tangled mess sticking out in all directions, but you kinda like the look of it. Makes you look like the freak that you are. Makes you look how you feel.

You roll with them for about two weeks, ride in the back of the truck with Reverb and Flash while Glass drives, 'cause she's best at driving, Reverb says. Reverb says a lotta shit, and most of it's got the plus side of being useful. She says that their group got all lucky, weren't caught in the big blast that took out most of Zone Seven a few nights ago. Everybody's steering clear, 'cause the place is on fire and has been for days. No telling when it's gonna die down.

Didn't fight in the Wars herself, she makes a point of saying. It weren't her fight. Weren't Flash's fight neither, apparently. They snort and tell you the whole thing was doomed from the start.

Flashburn's got this mean look when they point it out to you but they're something in-between, neither dude nor lady, and they'd appreciate it if you _respected_ that. They say it like they expect you to piss on their leg just for saying it. What's it matter? Some of the robots you fixed up in the Lobby weren't boys or girls either, you're pretty sure. It weren't your business. Didn't matter none. Reverb says people're all sorts out here. Without BL/ind to box everybody up into parcels, they do whatever the hell they want. Dye their hair, paint their nails, whatever the fuck. Ain't such a bad idea. Your hair's pretty dark, real dark, but the sun makes it look lighter than it is. Makes it look lighter brown when the light hits it. Don't like the look of it so much out here.

It's something to think about. You're gonna do most of that thinking away from Flashburn. They got this cold look to their face every time they see you and they like to take out a giant-ass fucking knife and play with it whenever you're around. Joke's on them. You don't sleep in the same place as any of their crew. Barely sleep at all. When you do it's back to the nearest wall, curled up tight, hand on your gun. Learned how to sleep back in the city. Learned how to doze light and easy so that you wouldn't get dragged outta sleep without a fight. Nobody's gutting you while you ain't awake to do something about it.

Flash don't actually gut you, but they kinda get this look to them like they wanna. Gonna have to try harder than that to spook _you._ You seen worse in Bat City.

Whatever bone they got to pick with you, they gotta shove it for two weeks, 'cause you're their fucking mechanic for those two weeks. You fix the busted hose that's leaking shit all over the engine - _coolant_ is what that is, you find out pretty quick - and you do your best to fix up the truck's axles when the car starts shaking and stuttering every time Glass makes a turn. Once you ask Glass if she'll let you drive. Flashburn tells you to shut the fuck up and get in the back with them before they kick you out.

Guess you didn't do a _real_ good job of fixing those axles. Presumably that's your fucking fault, not that you had the fucking _tools you needed_ to fix that shit anyway. Axles gotta be _replaced_ once they go bust, straight-up. The weather reports back in Bat City used to say that acid storms're a real bitch out here, and it turns out that weren't a lie. They charge the air with lightning and make the hairs on your arm stand on end. They slick the roads and turn the sand to mud and when the truck gets hit with a fucking flash flood outta nowhere, the tires hydroplane and the whole thing goes spinning out. Slams into a building in the middle of Zone One and caves in a roof and kills Glass and Bombshell.

You see it happen. The eruption of flame and noise from the impact's almost goddamn beautiful as it sears the fucking hair on your scalp. The front of the car crumples in and Glass and Bombshell're the ones in front so you see Glass's arm dangling out, the bone jammed outta the back of her elbow and you almost lose your fucking lunch right then and there. Glass gets lucky. She dies quick.

Can't forget the sound of Bombshell Boy wheezing through a collapsed lung. Knew it were happening, breath speeding up, and he's fucking _scared,_ you can fucking _tell,_ god that's on you this is all on you and you should've seen this coming _you only ever been good at breaking shit_ so why the fuck would you _ever imagine_ that people would be the exception.

Flashburn and Reverb're pretty quick to make you fuck off after that. If the faulty axle didn't make up their minds on that one, it was probably you laughing as you crawled outta the wreckage with a chunk of wood speared into your shoulder. With a name like "Monster," what the fuck'd they expect, huh? You didn't pick that name for yourself but it weren't picked for _nothing,_ all right?

They only picked you up 'cause you could fix the car and there ain't any car to fix anymore that's also on you.

But Jesus fucking god, walking a couple miles with a piece of wood shoved into the meat of your shoulder fucking hurts like nothing else. Don't feel too deep. An inch or something, maybe. Could try yanking it out but your hands're shaking too bad and you're pretty sure that'll make you bleed faster anyway, fuck. You wrap the shreds of your jacket around it to try and keep the blood from leaking out. Figure that's probably why Flash and Reverb let you go. Must've figured like this you'd die all slow. Be a hell of a worse way to go than Shot Glass or Bombshell. Pretty sure that crash killed 'em in a - in a flash.

You're fucking laughing at that one, aren't you? The fuck's wrong with you, fucking laughing at a joke like that.

Really fucked this one up. Didn't you, shithead?

Pretty sure you pass out in the middle of goddamned nowhere. Honestly, can't really remember when you hit the fucking sand but you figure you must've at some point, 'cause eventually your eyes're cracking open again when someone's trying to roll you over.

"Hello, there." Dark visor. Blue helmet. _"You_ look like a live one."

That's about all you remember before your eyes lapse shut and the world goes dead.

**\--**

**we won't let go of the old days  
but we can't even remember them.**

**\--**

World don't go dead. World's still spinning. You twitch and you wake up and you're on a ratty couch with a blanket over you. Dunno where the fuck you are. There's posters and colorful scraps of paper stuck all up on the walls but nothing about any of them stick out as something familiar. Ears're ringing, but that ain't new. Feel kinda like shit. Also not new.

Shoulder hurts. Yeah, feels about right.

So why ain't you dead? Pretty sure you ain't dead. Pretty sure you passed the fuck out and you should be dead 'cause you crashed a fucking car. Or you were responsible for a car getting crashed. Same thing. People died. Your mouth tastes like chalk and stale vomit. Your throat squeezes all tight and it's maybe 'cause you wanna laugh but mostly 'cause you think you wanna retch so you roll over and that's what you do. You blow chunks all over the fucking floor.

"Guess that means you're awake." Words're a low drawl behind dark glasses. Guy in a chair. Hair long, all jet black. Mustache. Beard. Sure as hell older than anybody else you seen in the desert so far.

"Th'fuck you want?" Always good to start out on the defensive.

"Wanted to check up on the kid that Show Pony dragged in, looking about half-dead," the guy says, still dry. "Pretty sure they saved your life. You're welcome."

That don't sound right. You're about ready to wrench upright, and then there's a hand on your shoulder - your _undamaged_ shoulder, pushing you back into place. Bastard's grabbing you with no warning so of course you batter the side of his head with your other arm and knock his sunglasses flying and then you go for the goddamn _throat,_ squeeze tight until he gags, and - 

And the real you don't get that far. You get ready to buffet this fuck with your other arm but an agonizing bolt shoots down from shoulder to fingertips instead and your world whites out for a sec.

"Easy." The word's all faint, like it's coming through static. Everything's gone all snowy, fuck. "Take it slow, sunshine. You got pretty lucky back there."

Yeah sure, sure. You feel real goddamn lucky, don't you? Hand's still on your shoulder. The pressure's faint but it kicks something inside you and shoots electricity up your fucking spine. You don't got shit to say to this fuck. Nothing but what needs to be said:

"Get the _fuck_ off'a me."

"Easy!" barks the guy, and now he's sounding a lot less friendly. They always sound so much less fucking friendly once you prove you ain't what they thought. Wonder of all fucking wonders, that don't make you wanna sit tight any longer.

"I said get the _fuck off!"_

He pushes you, tries to force you the fuck back down. Nobody does that. Nobody gets to fucking do that. You don't let people - they don't get to do that to you anymore. Know damn well what that means. Means _sit the fuck down and shut the fuck up_ and you ain't fucking _doing_ that for anybody, not for him, not for your dad, not for BL/ind doctors, not for _nobody._

You end up on the ground with your ears buzzing and your sight gone spotty and the guy in the wheelchair swears.

"Goddamnit, will you hold still and listen to me?"

"Blow me."

Hurts like a _bitch_ to go crawling over the ground on your elbows, slogging through your own sick. Ain't the first time you done it. There's this raggedy-ass rug on the ground, stained with discolored patches like it's had drinks and worse spilled over it. Probably ain't the first person to gag all over the fucking floor.

You make it like two feet before you find yourself a couple of inches from a pair of roller skates. They lead on up to a pair of leopard-print leggings and a shirt that looks like somebody spit up five different paints onto it. Blue helmet, dark visor. Oh, this should be good.

"You're gonna tear your stitches," says the somebody under the helmet. "After I worked _so_ hard on them."

Getting hard to think of something clever to say to that. The fog in your head and the splinter-shots of _absolute fucking hell_ shooting up your arm're making it a little goddamn difficult. You're outnumbered.

"Eat my cock." Gotta love the classics.

The head behind the helmet sighs.

"You sure this kid was worth you dragging their ass back here?" says the guy in the chair. "Don't seem all that grateful to me."

They want grateful? These jokers want _grateful?_

"Didn't ask for your fuckin' help," you work it out between clenched teeth. Case in point, you're getting your good hand underneath you now. Pushing yourself upright, sitting up partway and breathing hard. And your shirt - your shirt's gotta be a lost cause at this point, huh? It's all torn and ragged-edged and stained rust-brown where the chunk of wood entered your shoulder. Now you remember it. The crash, the chaos, Glass and Bombshell. Yeah. Okay. No wonder your arm fucking hurts. No wonder there's a white roll of bandage wrapped around it underneath the wreck of your shirt, and no wonder it's starting to leak fresh, dark red.

"You would've bled out if I'd left you," says the fucker with the helmet and the skates. Has the gall to reach down and offer a hand to help you out, like that ain't some kinda trick. Like this whole-ass set-up ain't suspicious as hell. What do they get from dragging a shitty little kid like you back to their place, huh? Nothing to gain from that. What's their play? Gotta be one. So what's it gonna be?

"You got Show Pony here to thank," says the guy in the chair. "They brought you back here, helped patch you up."

"Not _alone,_ I didn't." The dark helmet swivels around to stare at the dude in the chair, somehow sounding an awful lot like somebody pulling a pout even if you can't see their face. "Not without D here helping."

"Suck _my_ D," you snap at them both. Don't give a shit who _Show Pony_ is or who _D_ is or why either of them gave a fuck about you outside the obvious. Ain't doing it for no reason. Nobody does. "What d'you want?"

Pony looks back to you. 'Least, you're pretty sure they do. Hard to say, 'cause they got that helmet on, but now it's facing you again so you assume that's what this is.

"What?"

"You drag me back, yeah?" You fling out a hand to gesture at the place. Small place. Cramped. Wood walls, tacked-up scrapes of paper and drawings and posters and everything in here looks old as shit but it looks like they _live_ here. What's that make them? You only known killjoys and zonerunners, and none of them're the kind that're stationary. They live outta cars and off of highways, don't they? What's it called when you live in the Zones and keep to one spot?

"How _old're_ you, kid?" says the guy in the chair - D, or whatever.

"Fuck you," you tell him, 'cause that's the only answer that question deserves.

"Shiny," says D wearily.

So Show Pony saw you crawling on the ground like some kinda dying thing and instead of letting the dead _die_ like they _should've,_ they picked you up and carried you back to this station, 'cause that's what this is - it's a _radio station,_ and the guy in the chair's a DJ by the name of Dr. Death Defying. You dunno who the fuck that is and you got no reason to care neither. Either of them expect you to act all grateful and shit for dragging you back here? People don't do that shit. People don't do that shit for _you_ and they don't do it for no reason. Not for you. There's gotta be some reason they did it and neither of them'll let you in on it and that don't make you real likely to figure they're doing this for _you_ , no fucking goddamn _way._ Whatever the game here is, you ain't fucking playing it. Eventually they leave you alone long enough for you to quit telling them to fuck off on sight but that don't last long.

"Suit yourself," says Pony coolly, when you tell them to fuck off 'cause you're trying to drag yourself onto the couch and they said they could _help._ Nobody fucking touches you.

You don't trust this shit. None of it. Not a single fucking second of it. Show Pony and Dr. Death, they act all _nice_ to you and leave you alone on the couch most of the time, leave bottled water for you to snatch at and you hold off as long as you can on drinking it but eventually you gotta 'cause you _need water_ if you wanna keep living. Sometimes you pick up what Dr. Death says in his broadcasts, chatting about sights and sounds and news. Big party in Zone Four the other night, complete with a reported Mad Gear sighting. Big-ass memorial concert held in Zone Two got broke up when the dracs crashed the party and ghosted three Zone-rats. Sometimes he's got these somber moments when he commemorates the dead or says that they got confirmation that somebody kicked it during the Great Fires of 2012 when up 'till now they was only missing.

Ain't hard to put together that those Great Fires only just got put out. BL/ind took all the credit, even if the way Dr. Death tells it, they're the reason Zone Seven went up in flames to begin with. Don't take a lotta hard thinking to figure that this was why the city was all up in arms the night you got out. The heat and smoke from the blasts of the bombs they dumped in the desert wafted all the way to Bat City. They murdered a shitton of killjoys and ended the Analog Wars.

Analog Wars. Dunno how long _those_ lasted, but they must've been the Wars that your teachers never let you talk about in school. Way Dr. Death talks about them, they seem pretty fresh still. Guess he was there doing some of the fighting, or he knew the people who were. No knowing if Pony was, but they always wear their goddamn helmet so you got no goddamn clue how old they are or what they fucking look like and that's fucking fine with you.

That's all the shit you get from them in about two days. Mostly you pretend you're asleep so they don't go asking you questions or shit like that. You're only out for a few hours a day, if that. These bastards don't gotta _clue_ if they think you're gonna doze off while people you don't know are in the room with you. They don't know _jack_ about you. You're always curled tight on your side, same as ever, back to the wall. Hand under the cushion they been using as your pillow, gripping the raygun that carried you outta those Bat City walls. Still got it. Guess Pony brought it back with you.

You're supposed to stay with them for longer than a couple days, but _fuck_ that. They tell you, when you bother to listen, that you got real lucky and in about two weeks your shoulder and arm'll be about as healed as they're gonna get, 'cause a wound like that one's gonna fuck with nerve endings and muscles and shit. 

Like hell. Like _hell_ you're gonna stay here _two weeks_ with these fucks. They make a good drip-feed for whatever info's on the air and you pick up a few things while you're stuck in one place. You soak up whatever magazines the Doc's got lying around the place - car mags mostly, stuff on auto maintenance, but also some vintage shit, manuals that chatter about different kinds of radios and recording gear. Figures that'd be a thing. This is a goddamn radio station, right? And somehow it's more than that, 'cause some of this shit is older than the Helium Wars, you _double-checked,_ so how the hell does this guy have access to antiques like this? The shit he keeps here is old as _fuck_ but most of it still works. Still fucking works. That's the thing that really gets you.

Don't mean you trust who runs it. Don't know _shit_ about either of them, and they ain't talking.

You give it a few days, just south of a week, but they still won't say what the fuck they _want_ from you and if they ain't gonna be up front about it, then you're gonna fuck off while you still can. Ain't like it's hard. Pony ain't around most of the time, doing "runs" by the doc's request, whatever the fuck that means, and D's one guy who's in this motor-powered wheelchair all the time so it ain't like he can go all that fast. You figure out when he naps and you're outta the damn station in record time with whatever canned food you could find. The bastards had boxes of the shit. Weren't they like were using it for nothing, all right? So yeah, it hurts to run, hurts to do much of anything that uses your arm, but you bolt 'cause you know better than to let yourself get stuck helpless in some stranger's place.

Station's set up in Zone One. Figures you end up with your back to the fucking city walls all over again. How long you been out here? Not even a month, and it's like the desert's conspiring to push you back into Bat City. _Don't belong here, don't belong here, don't belong here._ Don't belong nowhere, all right? _Fuck_ that. Only way the city's getting _you_ back is if you're dead.

It's time to start running again. That's one of the things you've started hearing. That's what they all tell each other, killjoys and people like that. They say to _keep running._

They're a people that live by running. Guess that's why you figured you'd do better out here than in the city. Stupid. _Stupid._ You really figured you'd _last_ out here?

Pretty damn good at running. If you ain't good at anything else, you're real damn good at this. At _running._ You might be back to square goddamn one but that don't mean you're gonna quit. You don't fucking _quit._ Not at anything. You still ain't found Tommy. In fact - yeah, you know what? That's what you're gonna do. You're gonna find Tommy. You're gonna find that prick and you're gonna prove him wrong when you find him. You're gonna prove to him that you _could_ last out here. Make him real damn sorry for ditching you.

Can't die yet, bitch. Still got a few motherfuckers to prove wrong.

**\--**

**kill 'em all but now we don't even have time  
to let god sort them out.**

**\--**

It's another week before you run into somebody willing to take you. 'Till then you keep trekking on by foot, day by day. There's these bodybags that BL/ind leaves all over the desert like black-and-white slugs and they always leave them in _groups_ , like they went and ghosted ten people on the spot and then just _dropped_ them there. Whatever. You've handled the dead before. Don't bother you anymore. The bodybags do some temp-regulating bullshit, kinda like the Bat City walls, so they make for a good place to spend the night if you got nowhere else to go. Most of the time, that's kinda the case. And sometimes whoever's inside's got something in their pockets still. Ain't like they're using it anymore. Carbons, spare batteries - you take whatever you can carry with you.

None of them wear masks. You seen it before. Most zonerunners, they wear masks and shit, they keep their faces hidden from BL/ind surveillance tech. But every time you run into a corpse, it's like some other fuck frisked them for the masks first. Sucks, 'cause you could really use one. Could use a real badass one, like a _monster_ mask to fit your name. That's who you are out here. _Monster._

Don't find a mask but you do you find yourself actual clothes that ain't the shreds of what you wore in the city. Pair of pants with real goddamn _pockets_ , though you gotta tear them up at the knees so that you can get them on you. Makes your still-healing shoulder ache like a _bitch_ but it's worth it. Find yourself a real shiny jacket, something made outta leather or whatever. It's kinda torn, kinda stained, kinda frayed at the edges, kinda too big for you, but whatever - it's got these _studs_ on the shoulders that sparkle like fucking stars. You _seen_ a few stars now. Even though the sky's gone kinda hazy from all the smoke and shit that's gotten pumped into the air, ever since the night you got out. Figures. Fucking figures the night you get out's the night the stars start to disappear. That'd be your kinda fucking luck, huh?

Hair's getting awful long. Awful matted. Trying to detangle the snarls that've formed in your hair's a waste of time so you let it all lie. The shaggy, untamed mass of it that's starting to creep down the back of your neck probably goes great with the generally unwashed look to you, your crooked teeth, your uneven nose, and the heavy, bruise-dark bags under your fucking eyes from the lack of sleep you been getting. You traded your shoes for some proper boots you found in a bodybag. Also kinda big for you, but most shit's too big for your short ass. You're used to it. You deal.

When it ain't storming with sharp-smelling rain that makes the air taste weird and turns the sand to sludge, it's searing fucking hot. When it ain't the heat, it's the snap of the cold when the sun drops past the horizon and the night settles in. The Zones're _all_ highs and lows. Feels like they got no room for anything else most days.

One of those lows is catching up to you right about now, 'cause it's the middle of the night, you're outta clean water, and you're running for your goddamn life. It's your fault. Always is. That ain't new. This time you were too _goddamned stupid_ to realize that the abandoned building you figured would make a good shelter weren't so much _abandoned_ as it was _occupied._ And occupied by who? By a bunch of _goddamn dracs_ is who.

Dracs're pretty rotten shots. They're about as good as shooting as they are at talking, which already ain't great. But they're fucking goddamned relentless, you'll give 'em that. They don't give you _any_ time to try and shoot them down, no windows, no time to hunt for cover, nothing. Safe to say you'd be dust if Lockdown hadn't shown up.

So, uh, your first impression of Lockdown is kind of a goddamn doozy. You're running for your life, getting chased down by flashes of white lightning, about to collapse 'cause you're about wheezing your goddamn lungs out, when in the distance there's the buzz of a motor, and then it ain't in the distance anymore. There's a dark blot of a car _roaring_ for you, black against the purple night, kicking up a seething cloud of dust. You fling yourself flat to the ground in time to duck the spiked end of a baseball bat with nails and chunks of shrapnel jutting out the end as it comes fucking _sailing_ over your head. Feel it _whiffing_ over your tangled mat of hair. Next thing you know, this lean-ass motherfucker's leaping outta the car and times the jump so that she lands on the drac feet-first and crunches it to the ground. Probably pulps the thing's ribcage with how hard she lands on top of it. Then she's plowing forward at the rest, swinging her bat and scattering the rest of the fuckers like flocks of crows.

That's pretty much Lockdown in a nutshell: _spikes._ Spiky hair, spikes on her jacket, spikes on her boots, spikes on her bat, and a real killer aim. _Real_ killer aim. She busts up a drac's jaw and craters in the skull of another. Turns the fucking sand into a soup of blood and teeth and brain matter.

The car skids to a halt and sprays dust like a _mile_ high with how violently the driver pumps the brakes, and then there's another two Zone-rats clambering out to join the fray with bright chirps of their zaps. Don't think they notice you at first. They're yelling, hooting, hollering as they're mowing down dracs like it's a real party. You've flipped onto your back panting and maybe you should run, 'cause these freaks kinda seem like the bloodthirsty types of burners that might wanna figure if you got something worth taking before they cave your head in.

You ain't moving. Why ain't you moving? C'mon. _C'mon._

C'mon, idiot. Get up, you _bitch._ You stick around, you'll die. Gotta get up.

Get up, get up, c'mon, get _up -_

A drac snags the front of your jacket and wrenches you up, gurgling an inarticulate cry of - you dunno _what_ the fuck kinda emotion it's going for. Triumph? Frustration? Fuck if you know. The thing's oozing blood and smoke from a couple burns on its back but it ain't had the courtesy to lay down and die yet. It braces the muzzle of its gun underneath your chin but you don't let it get that far. You slam your own raygun up against its ribs and squeeze the fucking trigger and _zip, zap, zzt!_ Like flies to a bug zapper.

It ain't like snapping a drac's neck by accident. Makes you go cold, toenails to spine. The drac takes its sweet time in sinking to the ground and you _almost_ get out from under it but it lands on your _fucking_ bad arm and you go down with a yell.

 _"Aguanta._ Look at that." 

Ow, fuck, fuck, fuck, _fuck,_ this is the _full dead weight_ of a drac down on top of your shoulder and you can feel the muscles in your shoulder _tearing_ as you try to wiggle it out from under it. 

"Look at what?"

Bite your goddamn _cheek_ and _suck it up,_ moron. You stay stuck like this, you're dead. You wanna be dead? You wanna be fucking dead? You wanna be fucking ghosted 'cause you couldn't get yourself out from under a couple hundred pounds of dead drac? God, you're fucking pathetic.

"Weren't just any patrol. They was after someone."

Stop whining and get up. Get _up._ God, fuck, you can taste blood. So? Fucking _so?_ Tasted your own blood plenty of times back in Bat City. This any worse than getting your face busted by your old man's right hook? This any worse than choking on pills on the bathroom floor? You been through worse. You're a fucking _Monster,_ right? Aren't you? _Aren't_ you? Aren't you a fucking Monster? Fucking _act like it._

"That's a kid. They after a kid?"

The dead weight lifts clean off you and that's how you meet Demon Daze.

Demon Daze has got hair longer than yours, a mouth bigger than yours, and a face that don't look right unless he's grinning. He's got skin the color of the desert sand and these big dark eyes, sorta almond-shaped. He looks like he got more scar tissue than skin. There's a big pale "X" slashed into the area just beneath his left eye. His drobe's pretty ragged, and his shoulders're broad. Goes without saying that he's older than you. Tall as hell too.

First thing Demon Daze says to you is a bright crow of, "'sup, fucker?" Then he looks you up and down and his face splits into this wide, _wide_ -ass grin. "They shoot the legs off'a you, or you always been that short?"

That's nice. Real _clever._

"Fuck you."

"Got bite," is the first thing Jolt Fuel ever says to you - they say everything with the same leisurely drawl, like it ain't no rush, with this weird half-smirk and a cocked head. Impossible to tell what's a joke to them and what ain't. "Even if you're...what? Ten?"

"Bite me."

Demon Daze laughs and Jolt Fuel chuckles and Lockdown lifts her bat from what used to be a drac's face. The nails at the end're all crusted with...bits.

"Oh," she says, totally flat. She looks at you and her expression's pretty flat too. "We're picking up another one?"

Guess you ain't the first sucker that these guys've picked up outta the dirt. You ain't the first nobody they figured could hold a gun and be handy in a firefight. You fought back. You didn't let the dracs take you. You shot one of them dead even if everything was pretty damn hopeless.

Unlike the last gang that took you, the one that let you roll with them for two weeks 'cause you could fix motors and not much else, this is a _real_ gang. A _real_ crew. Not a band of burners who took you in for no other reason besides that you knew your way around cars. They grin at you and laugh when you laugh and they ask you, fucking _ask_ you if you wanna run with them for a bit. They say anybody who gets on the bad side of that many dracs is somebody worth knowing. They've got masks and zaps and real killjoy names and they act like people who've had to fight hard to make it out here. They're looking for people with fire in their souls and a lust for ripping into BL/ind's shit. You were pretty good at that back in the city. No reason to believe you won't be good at that here, yeah?

Welcome to the Demon-Sharks, Monster. Hope you're ready to raise a little hell.

**\--**

**we are the flickers inside of neon signs  
that never turn off.**

**\--**

Yeah. You're ready to raise a little hell.

So like, sure, you're the youngest here. Ain't like that's a surprise. Lockdown ain't really sold on you joining up with the gang and she don't bother to hide it. She's about as blunt as the bat she carries, which actually ain't that blunt since it's spiked up all to hell, but _details,_ all right. She's got violently red hair spiked up down the center of her head, and everything about her's studded in some way or another. Studs on her eyebrows, studs on her boots, studs on her belt. Studs on her jacket made of this dark, creased-up leather that kinda matches yours. Her shirt's this torn-up nebula of violet swirled on black, ripped so that it hangs a little over her middle, bares the warm bronze trench of her stomach. Her nails've got this flaking purple paint on them. You'd guess she's maybe four, five years older than you? Looks around Pandora's age. Can't keep thinking that for everyone but _Pandora's age_ is kinda the only metric you got other than your own.

Demon Daze is the oldest, you figure. Could be that he's the _tallest._ Hard to say. Point is, they're a bunch of teenagers. Maybe eighteen, nineteen at the oldest. You dunno. You're pretty shit at figuring people's ages and everybody thinks you're younger than you are anyway. Issues of being four-foot-nothing.

Demon's in charge. He makes the calls. Lockdown is the close-range combatant. She fucks up dracs and gets all up and personal with it. Jolt Fuel's there for...you dunno, the fun? Demon says that you're in the gang now and Jolt kinda laughs and says they could use more cannon fodder and you're _pretty_ sure they're joking? Got no clue. They smile all the goddamn time. They're shorter and stockier than the other two, black, with long dreads pulled back outta their face and knotted up at the base of their skull and the loose ends running down over their shoulders. Their eyes always look hooded, like they're about to fall asleep any goddamn moment. Half the time, it's hard to tell when they _are_ asleep. Their easy smile gives nothing away. Face like that can't be fucking trusted. You should know. You laugh all the goddamn time too, and you sure as _shit_ can't be fucking trusted. 

The Sharks roll nonstop. Their car's this busted hunk of scrap. You've read every goddamn car mag you could get your shitty little hands on every chance you can get and you're _pretty_ sure this junker's an old-ass Chevy, probably pre-war. Modded by somebody who knew what the fuck they were doing too, 'cause you're positive that this sucker's supposed to be a two-seater truck but it's got its roof taken out and now it seats six. None of the Sharks know how the fuck to handle the thing other than to hit it when it starts making sounds they don't like and Jesus _Christ,_ how the hell've they kept this rig going if that's how they deal with the sight of smoke snaking out from under the hood?

The Sharks're out to raise hell. That's what Demon says to you the day you meet him and that's kinda the group philosophy in a nutshell. They ride around until they find dracs, and then they fuck up the dracs. When that's done, they pick the bodies clean of whatever's worth taking and pile back into the truck and ride around in search of more. They stop for gas, for food, to pick up a drink at one of the joints out here, but not for a whole lot else.

Goes without saying that none of them know jack about car maintenance. Kinda sad that _you're_ the one who's gotta make their car fucking work for them when it dies, but what the fuck else you gonna do? Barely shot a gun, only managed to kill a drac or two by accident.

But, hey. Hey. _They_ don't need to know that, right? Nobody needs to know that. You're little, but you can pull your weight. Pull _more_ than your weight, 'cause you barely weigh anything. Pulling it right now by checking the oil for these jokers. Turns out it's pretty tough to keep a car running when you're getting into a clap every other day.

Sure as shit _feels_ like every other day. A week or so of this rhythm's around the time it hits you that this ain't them being cute or going on a rampage or having a sweet little vacation. This is _life_ for them. All of them. Straight up. They ain't focused on survival the way Flashburn and their crew'd been. These guys wanna pick fights and smash ribcages, and far as you can tell, that's it. That's the bottom line.

Makes you wonder if they were on the frontlines, fighting in the Analog Wars. The war's over, and the killjoys lost, and you _know_ that now, but the Sharks've got this special kinda bitterness, this extra _edge_ to how they go hunting down the dracs like it's for sport. Like they're hitting back at the thing that fucked them over.

So any one of them could fuck you up without breaking a sweat but that don't make them special, and besides - none of them know the car the way you do. Only been a _week_ and you know this car better than any of them. That didn't work out so great with Flash but this crew ain't Flash's. And you ain't gonna make the same mistake again, all right? Not fucking again. Don't fuck this up.

Hey, for once it ain't you fucking things up. The rest of the Demon-Sharks manage that just fine on their own. Might be why they figured they could put up with _your_ shit.

Jolt likes to laugh real quiet, kinda like you do. Always knew it were a fucked up thing, the fact that you laugh all the goddamn time. It takes seeing another person doing it outta nowhere to realize how much it makes every hair on the back of your neck stand _up_ and how it makes your hands ball into fists and you wanna fucking - _slug_ that bastard right across their face every time they start up. It ain't even _like_ the way you do it. It ain't like you choking on your own laughter while you try not to vomit blood or after someone's broken your nose. Like, you _laugh_ at the wrong things, right, but at least you're _laughing_ at, y'know, _things._ Jolt does it for _no goddamn reason_.

Lockdown tells them to shut the fuck up and they smile at her and Demon tells them both to give it a rest until everybody splits for the night and sleeps in their own little corner. It's like they don't even like each other. What the hell kinda gang runs together if they don't even like each other? What's that say about you, and how long you're gonna last?

They're not getting the drop on you. Not on you. Know how this works by now. Nobody sneaks up on you in the night, all right? That's the kinda thing that stopped in Bat City.

You sleep in the car. Nobody fucks with the car. You're small and you can fit underneath the seats with your bony-ass back jammed up against something that feels kinda like a wall and if anybody thinks they can sneak up on you, you'll fry 'em with a laser blast. You got your gun. Hand on your gun every night. You ain't spent a single night without it in your _grip_ since you got out here. Makes it easy to handle the texture of your nightmares, the flash-frame of a fist drawn back that jolts you awake, the reflexive, spasmodic leap of your heart in your ribs. Some things don't change between the city and the desert. You still wake roughly with the tang of adrenaline in your veins and the ice-slick of your sweat sticking your clothes to your back. The scenery's changed - long flat stretches of buff-colored desert spotted with scrub brush and Joshua trees instead of TVs split with static and unchanging walls of white and gray - but the nightmares stay the same. People don't notice. You're positive they don't. You wake quiet. You got good at waking quiet. Had to, back in the city.

The group don't stay put for longer than a day or so. Usually shorter. The one day you ain't all up and moving the second the sun starts slinking up into the sky, Demon Daze gives Lockdown a load of shit for holding everybody up.

"C'mon, Lock," he says, stretching the words out. He don't bother to hide his exasperation. "Let's _go."_

"Fuck you," says Lockdown tonelessly. "I'm touchin' up my color."

Lockdown is kinda like you, but like... _better._ Okay, all right, ain't like _that's_ hard. More like she's got more surface area to lay ink into her skin and she's actually _good_ at doing it and the first time you saw her tattoos you kinda stood and gaped for a second. Pretty sure you don't want her coming near you with a sharp needle, but you watch her sharpen the shapes inlaid into her skin and don't bother to fight back how envy feels in your chest. It's a new thing. New feeling. Weren't none of that shit in Battery City. People there didn't have anything worth envying.

She's got these big, sweeping shapes that unfurl down both arms. Her skin's darker than yours so the ink stands out all pale and almost shimmery in the desert heat. There's this skull on her shoulder with thick, winding petals swimming out from its opened jaws, trailing long thorny vines that encircle her bicep and taper off near the elbow.

Demon's pacing impatiently near the car but everybody knows he ain't about to drive off and leave the group's bludgeoner behind. Lockdown has got her brow furrowed and a bottle of pale ink out as she goes. She's stick-and-poking, like how Pandora used to do you.

"Who did your color?" you ask, before you can bite your fucking tongue. Never could shut the fuck up in the city neither, could you?

"Crash queen over in Two," says Lockdown without so much as looking at you. "Pay 'em in enough booze and they'll ink anything."

"Big ink."

"They know how to do it right." Lockdown jabs the needle into her skin. Her tone don't change, low and flat as ever. She barely shifts her tone unless it's to yell at somebody and she don't have cause to do that a whole lot. She don't twitch, wince, or blink when she sticks herself over and over. "Got a working gun and everything."

Working gun. A real big, sprawling tattoo. Not done stick and poke, the way Lockdown's touching up her ink now, and not like the needlework you got done back in Bat City. Lockdown's only got the whitish ink laid out on her skin, almost silvery when the light hits it right, but you gotta wonder if the crash queen in Two, whoever the fuck they are, has got access to real _color_ the way Pandora did in Battery City.

Kinda want color. Don't gotta hide your ink away from the world anymore, so why _should_ you? Should paint it bold. Paint it in bright strokes all over yourself. On your fingers, on your hands, on your arms, down your back - on every goddamn _inch_ of you. So much ink that it wipes away the scar tissue, coats the ugly stains and bumps that swell the ridges of your shoulders and scab your skin. Can't make yourself look any less of a disgusting piece of shit, but you can cover it all up with something that looks _nice._ Something pretty. It'd be nice to be pretty.

"Lock! I said let's _go."_ Demon Daze is gunning the car motor while Jolt shucks their gun's battery pack and looks it over, inspects the casing, and slots it back in again. Demon shouldn't fucking burn the engine like that. That's a real good way to fuck it up long term. Should probably keep your mouth shut, 'cause you seen this guy snap drac necks with his bare fucking hands and you seen him pump a whitejacket with so much laser fire that it seared its front black. Should keep your mouth shut, but when the fuck've you ever done anything you should?

What the hell.

"Cut the engine," you tell him, mouthy little fuck that you are. "Don't rev it like that. You're gonna burn it out and you won't get _any_ murderin' done today."

Jolt laughs at that one. Tips their head back so some of the thick coils of their hair fall away from their shoulders. Their smile's white and glistening against their dark skin. 

"Hey. Monster." Demon looks at you and now _he's_ smiling. _"Damere."_

He think you're scared of him?

On instinct, you answer with a grin. "Make me, bitch."

Lockdown ain't listening to either of you. Jolt's still laughing in the passenger seat. Demon looks at you like he's figuring out what to do with you before he shakes his head and spits into the dust and growls something under his breath.

Score for you. Didn't back down, and he did. He _did._ Feels like you won something. Dunno what, but it felt fucking _good,_ so who gives a shit?

Ain't like he's gonna bring it up, and true enough, he don't. Couple hours later, you're all smoking dracs in Zone Three anyway. There ain't no time for infighting when there's pigs to dust.

You manage to ghost a couple of them for real this time. Light up the backs of their heads with bursts of plasma. You catch the switch on your gun and let the spent battery slide to the dust, slap in a new one, and the charge that ignites your blood's like a static tremor ripping down your spine. You can't shoot as good as Demon or Jolt; your hands shake too much and you gotta squint at faraway targets and your shoulder still twinges whenever you move it too quick. Can't think about the weight of dropping bodies and their unnatural stillness in the dust. Can't think about it, can't think too hard about any single bit of it. Snapped a drac's neck by accident the first time and then you were responsible for the crash that killed two dust-rats but these kills ain't accidental. Makes something bone-deep inside you shudder. Cracks you along these fault lines and threads the hairline fractures with salt and gunpowder.

You come away from the clap laughing and it almost feels like you fucking mean it for once. You double over laughing once it's done. You lie hunched up in the dust when the sun drops low and the night starts to swallow the evening. Ain't been able to stop since the clap happened. You'd strangle yourself to death if it'd get you to shut up, to shut the fuck up, to just _shut_ the fuck _up -_

You laugh 'till your sides ache with spent mirth. 'Till every nerve feels shivery and shot to hell.

Can't kill like the best of them, but you're learning. You're on your way.

Like a real killjoy.

**\--**

**we smoke the melatonin of the ancients  
to pretend we will never sleep alone again.**

**\--**

It takes a couple weeks of tinkering, but you figure how to get the truck's radio to run. Fizzes with static and spits out garbled frequencies half the damn time, but you figured out how to get it to fucking _work_ , so who really won here? Who really fucking won here?

"Turn that shit off," says Lockdown, first time you flick it on and it actually works.

Outta reflex, you crank up the volume. Don't matter if all that's pumping outta the speakers is squealing static. You twist those knobs up as far as they can go. That's for every time you had to listen to Mad Gear on the sly back in Bat City.

Lockdown swears and hefts up her bat.

"Swear to _christ,_ Monster." Her tone's acquired the low growl that means her already thin temper's fraying.

"You break the car, you're walkin' to the next killing spree," says Demon. He don't so much as look up from the gun maintenance he's doing with Jolt.

"It ain't even playing anything!" says Lockdown. "It's just fuckin' _noise."_

It's right around that time that the channel sharpens from _noise_ to something with words.

_" - comin' to you loud and live. But first, we've got some of the latest reports on the Great Fires of 2012."_

"Turn that garbage off," says Demon abruptly. He ain't looking at you.

He ain't standing up to _make_ you turn it off either. 'Sides, you're pretty damn sure you've heard that voice before. Ain't like you've met a ton of people out here that weren't beating your ass or telling you to fuck off, so who the fuck is it?

_"Three new names for the obits today, crash queens. Motor Manny, Ion Maiden, and Cloudbreak were confirmed ghosted in the initial wave that took out Zone Seven. Anyone out there got a means to bid them to the Witch, we wish you well."_

The Witch. Sounds important. The fuck's the Witch?

"Hey," says Lockdown. "Monster."

_"The pigs are still out there, takin' all the credit for puttin' those flames out. But we know better, don't we, motorbabies? We know who set Zone Seven on fire, no matter what the BL/ind say."_

Now you figure you recognize that voice. It's Dr. Death. Dr. fucking _Death_ Defying, the same fucker that acted like you should be all _grateful_ and shit 'cause he were keeping you alive. Like he were doing it for no reason. Sure. As if. You know better than to trust people who act like you're something worth saving. That ain't how the world works. Ain't how it's ever worked.

Nobody ever does shit for no reason.

"Monster," says Lockdown, louder. "Hey. _Monster."_

Yeah, yeah. Shut it off. You're about to up and _do_ that when Dr. D keeps going.

 _"As for the rest of you, I know you're waitin' for news better 'n what you just got, so allow me to proudly introduce to you_ Mad Gear's _newest LP, fresh off the tracks -_ Straight through to hell. Till the morning come. _That's all one title, crash kids - "_

"Monster," snaps Lockdown. "I said _apágalo,_ all right?"

She can fuck right off. Nobody fucking told you that _Mad Gear_ was out here, making more noise. Don't matter if it were Dr. D calling this shit in. Now nothing's gonna keep you from switching this goddamn radio off. _Nothing._ Fuck that!

"You listening to me, Monster?"

"Fuck off."

She reaches for the radio, but you grab her 'round the arms and try to wrestle her back.

Since she's got like sixteen inches on you and actual muscle to her bones, she grabs you by the front of your shirt and drags you outta the car like you don't weigh nothing, tosses you to the fucking dirt, and switches off the radio midway through the first chords of a guitar.

"Said to turn it off," she says. The words're all dull and low again, like it weren't nothing. It _weren't_ nothing. Not for her.

Thousand things you could say, wanna say, _not gonna say_. But it's _Mad Gear._ It's fucking Mad Gear, the only thing that kept you alive in the city some days. Songs that screamed about the hurt and the broken and the dirty. Lockdown ain't listening. Who the fuck ever listens to you? You're not a thing worth listening to. Never have been. _Mad Gear_ don't mean a thing to her. Don't mean a thing to none of them.

"Swear to _god,_ if I gotta hear that DJ ramble on about the _Witch_ one more time, I'm gonna kick his ass." Demon stands like the scuffle ain't happened. Breezes on past you while you pick yourself up from the dust. Don't so much as look at you. Why would he? You ain't fussing with the radio no more so you ain't worth his time.

"The fuck's the Witch?" You gotta grind it out or people won't hear you. Say it all scornful like they do.

"Desert superstition," says Jolt. They're sliding their bat-pack back into their gun without looking at you. Nobody ever fucking looks at you.

Used to that.

"We rollin' out?" Lockdown looks over at Demon with the first glimmer of interest you seen all day.

"Fuck yeah, we rollin' out," says Demon. "Monster, she good to go?" 

Still ain't fucking looking at you.

"Yeah," you tell him, low. Not looking at him either. "Yeah. She's fuckin' good to go."

Saying it crawls under your skin. That all you are to them? Their little errand kid? Their fucking mechanic? Sure. Sure it is. What the hell else're you supposed to be to them, huh? You ain't got nothing else they can't do for themselves already. They're all older than you, better at killing than you. All this time and you can barely shoot a drac without going shaky. Only thing you got going for you is that you can make the car run better than it ever did when there was three of them. That's it. That's all you got. Car breaks down, what happens to you then? Can't fix it, what the fuck happens to you then?

Like you gotta guess. Same thing that always happens to unruly nobodies like you.

They'll use you up and throw you out. Same way Flash did. Zones ain't so different from Battery City.

You know how this game's played by now.

**\--**

**we are the dodgers of death.  
but never take me off my chain - **

**\--**

"So who's the Witch?"

You keep hearing it on the airwaves, whenever you get the radio working. Lockdown keeps telling you to shut those tunes down and Demon Daze says he's gonna beat the shit outta you if you keep switching that thing on but so far neither of them've done anything about it so until they do you're gonna keep turning on the radio in hopes of hearing a few more strains of that new Mad Gear record. Should be on repeat on every damn station out there, all right? It's fucking _Mad Gear._ Sure, might be the only artist you know out here in the dust, 'cause it was that thumb-drive you picked outta some dealer's hand back in the Lobby, but it was that shit that kept you alive. It were those tunes that got pumped into your blood and got you thinking that you could carve out a _life_ in the Zones.

What you're doing right now ain't really living, but you never been real good at living.

Point is, you ain't heard any of the new Mad Gear in over a week, but you keep spinning back to Dr. Death's station 'cause it's, yeah, the only one you know. He don't know you're listening, all right? He don't know so much as your _name._ Don't matter. Stop thinking it matters. It _don't_ fucking matter. Guy goes on about shit like the _Witch_ and _Destroya_ and you know what _Destroya_ is, kinda, from when you lived in the Lobby, but all you got on the Witch is that she's some "desert superstition," according to Jolt Fuel. That's it. That's all you got.

"What's it t'you, short stack?" Demon's picking something outta his teeth with the tip of his pocket knife. The only pauses from the breakneck pace the Demon-Sharks cut out is in times like these. When you ain't rolling in the truck or ghosting dracs, it's when you're eating or bunking down. Lockdown's already asleep, snoring louder than an earthquake, and you _been_ through a few earthquakes out here by now. Jolt's, uh, doing whatever the fuck it is they do. Hard to tell when they're asleep or when they're paying attention or what. They're laying down and not facing you so it's hard to say.

You shrug, all easy. Like it ain't a big deal.

"Just wonderin'." 

"Phoenix Witch. Desert hoax," says Demon. "People say She picks up the dead. Takes their souls away after they're ghosted. 'S why people always leave Her their masks out by those mailboxes."

You seen 'em here and there by now. 'Course you've seen 'em. Colorful things, like just about damn near everything else in the Zones, but you ain't got any chance to stop and see 'em up close. Now it's starting to make a hell of a lot more sense. That, and another thing, 'cause all this time you spent picking over stiffs for c's and gear, it'd jumped out at you - that they never had masks, even if everybody out here's got one. The rest of the Demon-Sharks, they all got one. Jolt's got this bandana they tie to the lower part of their face, and Lockdown's got these heavy goggles that keep anything from ending up in her face when she's pounding dracs into pulp. Even Demon's gotta cloth mask, a simple strip of black fabric with eye-holes cut out that he ties around his face. You ain't bothered with a mask. Maybe you should.

"You got masks," you tell him, 'cause that were one of the first things you noticed. 

Demon snorts.

"Don't need the city getting up my ass about what I used to be," he says. _"That's_ why killjoys wear their masks. So the city don't know who they were."

Maybe you should start wearing one. Pretty sure the city don't give a shit of who you used to be. Weren't like you were anyone important.

"So why do they leave masks for the Witch?"

"Why? You gonna start leavin' ours for Her?" says Demon Daze. He's got a cigarette pinched between two fingers, snorting as he sticks it between his teeth and sucks in a long drag. Plenty of low-level pieces of shit smoked in the Lobby. That don't scare you.

"Just askin'," you tell him, 'cause why the fuck shouldn't you ask? You can _ask,_ can't you? You can ask questions. Nobody out here's gonna make you do shit. Shut up. They wanna get you to cut it out, they can fucking make you, can't they?

"'Cause masks're supposed to carry the soul, or something." Demon shrugs. _"Shiranai._ I look like I care? Ain't like She's real. Just some made-up ghost to make people feel better about dyin' for a war they weren't gonna win."

Analog Wars. That's what the Great Fires ended. Zone Seven got wiped off the map, and the Wars was over.

"Never fought in 'em?"

Figured they had. Figured they must've. That's the thing. Really figured they must've, that _some_ of them must've. Why else'd they be so goddamn _angry,_ so ready to dust every drac that they run across?

"Hell no." Demon laughs. "The Sharks, we been running before those wars ended. We stay in our goddamn _lane._ BL/ind wants to fuck with us, so we fuck with 'em right on back."

That crumples something all up in your guts. Dunno what. It don't matter what. Does it matter? Fuck no. Don't _matter._ You're with the Demon-Sharks now. That's what you do. You roll with them. You do what you gotta do with them, and it don't matter what they think. It's the longest anyone's ever put up with you, all right? They're still putting up with you, yeah?

"Huh." Don't got much to say to that. Grunt all quiet and don't say nothing else.

"Wars didn't do a damn thing," mutters Demon Daze. "Killjoys didn't do a _damn_ thing 'cept wipe Zone Seven off the fuckin' map. That's on them."

He passes you his cig and gets up, swearing under his breath. It's still lit, trailing smoke in the evening gloom. You dunno if he wants you to hold it, or if he's coming back, or...seems wrong to stub it out. What if he comes back? It's got a coal-red glow at the end. You ain't never smoked from one of these things before.

The thing keeps smoldering, and Demon Daze don't head back. Starts to sound like he's passed out and left his coffin nail burning between your fingertips.

You don't think too much about it when you take your first drag. Makes you cough a little, but that don't stop you. What could? 

It tastes like breathing in a smokestack. You shut your eyes and it tastes like the day you skipped town. The day you clawed your way outta Bat City's walls of manicured white. Tastes like the smoke that hung hazy over the Zones, the ash that stuck to your lungs with every breath. Tastes the way the skies looked in the days and nights, lit in molten streaks of oranges and reds. Feels like holding a live ember in your cheeks. It slows your pulse and you breathe out the rush of heat in a dull plume of smoke.

Probably gonna dry your lungs out if you go smoking this shit for too long. Make them go parched and burned-up as a wavehead's skin.

If you get real lucky, it might get to killing you before the dracs do.

**\--**

**the audience at the circus isn't safe -  
i will maul what you love just because that is what i am.**

**\--**

The first mailbox you really stop and _look_ at, it's all...well, it kinda stands out. Kinda really stands out. It's splashed up with color and got masks and fake skulls and flowers stuck to it. Could sit there staring at the designs worked into the thing forever, the cards stuck to the back, the messages written in charcoal and spraypaint. There's layers and layers of old shit, words inked down over and over each other. Looks older than it probably is.

The Demon-Sharks're stopped out at some kinda drinking joint and they didn't bother to pretend that a kid like you'd be let in. Dunno the name of the place and don't care to know, but the mailbox ain't that far away. They must've figured you was with the car, and you didn't tell 'em otherwise. Figure that Demon Daze wouldn't want you out here, is the thing. Pretty sure he'd call you a freak and a pussy and a million other things besides for being out here by a mailbox. He don't think much of the Witch. So you gotta make this quick.

You ain't never met Her. Never seen Her or anything like that.

The air feels kinda weird here. Feels shimmery and shivery, like you're standing in the heat waves that you always see trembling at the edges of road. Might be this is the kinda place where the fabric of the world's a little thin. Might be that's why there's a mailbox. Kinda wonder what came first - the box or the fragile air around it.

You crouch down across from the thing and run your fingers along the edge of one of the masks, one that must've once been a hot pink, now dulled to a faded red thanks to the sun's rays. You been a killer for some time now. The drac the night you got outta Bat City was only the first. Then there was Bombshell Boy and Shot Glass, 'cause you weren't doing very good at your job. Their souls're on your back, you're pretty sure. The dracs you've ghosted once you started running with the Demon-Sharks. Those souls're on you. You dunno if Flashburn or Reverb ushered Bombshell Boy and Shot Glass on through to the other side for the Witch to pick up. Kinda hope they did, but you dunno. You dunno how long they ran together. How much Flash or Reverb cared. 

Ain't like _you_ care. Let's get that outta the way, all right? You don't care. You don't give a shit. Why should you? Barely knew either of those fuckers. But if Flash and Reverb didn't give the dead their due, then someone's gotta, all right?

"Hey," you say soft, before you can consider what the hell you're doing. "Not, uh...I mean, ain't real sure you're listenin', or whatever. Just wanted to ask if it'd be - y'know, if Glass 'n Bombshell were with you or anything like that. Hope they made it 'n everything. Were my fault they got ghosted. Wanted you to fuckin'...know that. If you didn't."

You wait for a second for something. Dunno what. Breath of air down your spine or a cool breeze tickling the sand or a word hummed in the back of your head. But, nah. It's all quiet.

Too quiet out here. Dead quiet out here.

There's nothing on the breeze. Still air. Everything's too damn still. Makes you twitchy.

"'Kay." You stuff your hands into your pockets and stand. "Well...see ya, I guess."

Pretty sure you're supposed to be leaving Her something like a mask, to send the souls of the dead on their way. But you don't got that. All you got's a handful of words and some prayers or some shit, and you kinda gotta hope that'll be enough. Probably won't. Don't mean you won't try.

Crosses your mind that you might be seeing Her at some point anyway. You dunno. The way you live, it's a wonder you ain't seen Her already.

You stop, turn around. The mailbox sits there, a spot of color surrounded by the gold smear of the desert heat.

"Take care of 'em, yeah?" you tell Her, the last thing you fire off over one shoulder while you're heading back to the truck. "Take care of 'em. Glass 'n Bombshell. Didn't..."

What the fuck're you supposed to say? Didn't mean to? When's that ever mattered? When's it ever mattered whether or not someone _meant_ to kill anybody?

"You better take care of 'em, all right?" 

That's it. That's all you gotta say.

Just figure that She better take care of 'em. 

It's your fault they ended up stuck with Her in the first damn place, is all.

**\--**

**i am every grain of the dirt  
that you can't scrape off.**

**\--**

The High Stakes House is a bar and ink parlor run by a couple Zone-rats in Zone Two. They serve some of the best booze in the Zones, reportedly, and rats from all over the desert gather in to play games of cards and dice so they can bet carbons on the numbers.

The one who's got a real, working tattoo gun's a burner called Pressure Point. They're short, not that much taller than you, with a shadow running along an unshaven jaw to darken the warm tan of their skin. Their hair's an untidy crop of blackish hair that runs down the center of their skull, the buzzed-close sides dyed a deep blue. The Demon-Sharks stopping by is pretty damn common if you had to take a guess, 'cause Pressure Point don't so much as blink when you all breeze in. They nod like they know you already and ask Lockdown what she feels like getting today.

You watch them lay a new pattern against her shoulder blades, a swirl of pale ink that shimmers in the overhead lighting. Demon and Jolt are busy getting fucked up in the bar part of the parlor, sucking down off-brand alcohol in celebration for the dozen or so dracs you all dusted yesterday. Bat City's sending them out in bigger groups. Demon says it's 'cause they're trying to clean up what they started with the Fires, wipe all the killjoy dirt off the map.

Point is, it's more shit for the Sharks to kill. That's kinda all Demon Daze cares about.

Lockdown's got a bottle of something in hand while Pressure Point draws the lines into the cool chestnut-colored expanse of her upper back. Dunno what she's drinking specifically, but you know what alcohol smells like. Probably there to dull the pain, 'cause if stick and poke ink hurt like a motherfucker, you got no clue how _this_ must feel. Ain't never seen a real tattoo gun up close before. It's obvious this one's homemade, but that don't mean it don't work. It's got a motor, a _tiny_ -ass thing, taped to the barrel of a pen or some shit, and the thinnest needle you ever seen in your life sticking out. It's rigged up special. Looks janky as all hell, 'specially with the wire winding its way over to the generator sputtering in the corner, but it _works_ and that's what's important out here.

You watch close while Pressure Point darkens the lines that form the stylized coyote skull on Lockdown's back, crisp and bright. The design's complicated. Floral blooms jut out from the sockets and wind up to the base of Lockdown's neck, curling around the bony knot of her spine. The whitish ink stands out shiny against the places where Lockdown's skin's gone freckled with shrapnel scars.

The buzz of the tattoo gun clicks off, and Pressure dabs at a spot of blood that's started to darken the deep bronze of her back.

"You want one?" Their question's offhand. They ain't looking at you. Lockdown's eyes're at half-mast and she don't look to be listening to anything going on. Probably too blissed outta her mind from whatever's in that bottle. Works fine for you.

Don't think it were hard for Pressure to guess the answer to that. Demon and Jolt're drinking themselves sick, and you're the only one who's been sat here the whole time, watching. Not doing anything. Not saying nothing. Just watching while Pressure Point lays the color between Lockdown's shoulder blades.

"How much?"

"How much you got?"

How much you got on hand? How much've you picked from corpses, from the pockets of ghosted dracs, from body-bags left to dry out in the desert? More than you think anybody'd expect, since you steal shit more often than you pay for it. Definitely not booze, but it turns out that Pressure Point'll take c's the same as anyone.

It's enough to pay for some new ink. You want something _big._ Want something that _shows._

Fourth ink you ever get's one of a dog. The silhouette of a leaping dog that curls up around the peak of your shoulder, down your deltoid, terminating at your upper arm in a bolt of black ink. It ain't the biggest Pressure can do but it's bigger'n anything you got in the Lobby, and a hell of a lot fancier. Takes a hell of a lot longer. 

Hurts like hell. There weren't a single thing in your life that _didn't_ hurt in some way or another, and this ain't so bad. Needles jabbing into your skin? You can handle that. Handling it better and better every time.

You're gonna slather your arms with ink. You're gonna drape yourself in it, in patterns that stand out a hell of a lot more than smears of scar tissue.

The dog bleeds a little. 'Course it does. Don't make you think of the dog that weren't really yours in Bat City, not really, 'cause you didn't give the mutt a name and you didn't keep it long enough for it to matter. Can't miss something that you never fucking _had._ That ain't why you got the ink.

The dogs in Bat City, the ones your dad brought home, they were all broken things like you were. Weren't broken like the busted-open skull you found on your bedroom floor -

Not thinking about that. Not _thinking_ about that, asshole. Focus on the pain. Focus on the pain of a needle darkening the skin on your shoulder. Focus on the burn and tingle of the pigments getting shaded into your arm. Don't think. Don't fucking think about anything else.

Lockdown takes one look at the thing once it's done and snorts and says it's fucking lame for a first ink. She dunno it's your fourth and you know what? She don't gotta know. Jolt laughs when they see it but they laugh at everything. Demon Daze snorts but he don't say a thing.

Whatever. They might be your crew but they don't get to say shit about what you lay into your skin.

Out here, nobody gets to say what you do with yourself, and nobody gets to lay hands on you without your say-so.

**\--**

**i am the break not the bend.  
but make no mistake **

**\--**

You run with the one gang of Zone-rats that've got zero interest in anything but fucking shit up. Feels like it were a given that you'd actually be _good_ at a thing like that. Thought you'd be, 'cause that's the one thing you always done better than anyone. You've fucked up everything you ever done, so this feels pretty natural, yeah? Feels normal. Wrecking shit, ruining shit, breaking shit down.

Lose track of the days. Lose track of the months. It's an easy rhythm to fall into, dusting dracs and fixing the car and trying to grab for static signals on the radio whenever you get the chance, before Demon can shut you up. He shuts you up with a boot to the ribs. Shuts you up with a curse and a mean backhand. Like you ain't used to that. Like you didn't get that shit plenty in Bat City. You get _him_ to shut the fuck up by kicking him in the dick and he curls on the ground like a grub and swears you out but he don't toss you outta the group so you're calling that a fucking win.

Running like this ain't always fun. Turned your life into a battlefield and when there's laser fire flying every which way, it'd be inevitable that someone gets zapped. You seen raygun burns before. You seen what it looks like when Jolt peels back the charred fabric from the bruised and bleeding flesh left behind and then wipes it clean. You seen what a graze does to human skin, how deep a laser bolt can fry the layers of fat and muscle and ooze red and smoke. You seen how far a human body can go before adrenaline stops making up for blood loss. You seen how Lockdown can pound a draculoid's face into a bloody puree with the butt of her bat, her teeth bared in a soundless snarl, before she realizes that she got shot something like five minutes ago and hadn't noticed.

You get a blast to the back of your leg that lays you out for days. Demon gets antsy with staying put for that long. He drops you at the High Stakes House and the rest of the Sharks shoot off to raise hell in some other part of the desert. Leaves you to clean and wrap the injury yourself, even if you got no idea what the fuck you're doing. Demon said that if you can afford it, the crash queens at the House can help you out. They know a thing or two about first aid.

It's while you're outta the action that you get your fifth ink, a monster claw sunk into the skinny expanse of your forearm. You did the design for Pressure Point and they figured out the best way to lay it into your skin. Be nice to get some red in there, some bright-hot leaking, like those claws're sunk into the flesh of your arm for _real,_ but they don't got a lotta other colors on hand so they do the best they can. It leads up to the dog on your shoulder, makes your right arm a little reminder of the best pieces of Battery City - what tiny pieces of it that're worth remembering.

Eventually the Sharks gotta come back for you, 'cause the car's making noises and they dunno how the fuck to fix it and they don't gotta pay you to fix it outside of letting you run with them. Takes them a week to circle back to you, and then you laugh in their fucking faces 'cause they _need_ you, don't they, they _need_ your scrawny ass 'cause none of them could figure out how the car works on their own, huh? Lockdown sucker punches you across the jaw for that one but Demon makes her cut it out before she gets any further, 'cause you're still on the mend from that zap-blast and they need you to fix the fucking car, don't they? They need you to fix the fucking car. That's goddamn hilarious. Group of killers like them, dependent on a shitty little kid like you.

Sure. Yeah. You'll fix their fucking car. You don't fix it _too_ good, but you fix it. You never fix it _too_ good. You learned from the week you spent laid out in the High Stakes House. You fix it too good, they won't keep fretting over the weird sounds it spits out and then they might figure they don't need you anymore. Could fucking ditch you, toss you out the back. Know how it works by now.

Don't make a lotta difference in the end. You still fuck it up so bad that even the Demon-Sharks ain't willing to walk you back from it.

**\--**

**you brought me into your house  
and thought i could become a pet.**

**\--**

Weren't nothing special about the clap. Weren't a _goddamn_ thing special about it. A clump of dracs making a little noise in Zone One, sure, call that a fucking _standard deployment_ at this rate. Bigger group than usual maybe, but Bat City's been sending them out in droves in the months since the Fires. They wanna wipe the zonerunners off the map. Killjoys, DJs, waveheads, anyone who makes their life outside their walls're gonna be subject to some serious Bat City batshit. Hell, they even got their sights set on satellite chasers, groups of wandering nobodies who make their living hunting down the tech BLi tosses into the sky and tracking where it lands, selling off the scrap to junkpunks and microchips.

BL/ind don't want nobody living without their support. That includes anyone and everyone out in the Zones. So the groups of dracs're a little bigger than they would be otherwise, numbering closer to the _dozens_ than the loose patrols that made up most of the law enforcement in the city walls. In the Zones nearest to the city, they got whitejackets crawling alongside them, and in some cases (you've caught chatter of this on the radio when no one else was gonna raise a stink about you listening for signals again), they got _scarecrows_ heading them. Those're the city's _chief_ exterminators. Their most dedicated killers. Only ever saw them a couple times in the city and they always had better shit to do than look around for your truant ass.

You're kinda lucky this go around, 'cause there ain't no scarecrows. There's a _shitton_ of dracs though, and only four of you. Even if three-fourths of you are kinda real good at this whole killing thing. Kinda _really_ fucking goddamn good at it.

Lockdown shatters a drac's skull with a sweep of her bat. You hear the crack of the bone and you can sorta picture what it must look like, what it must _feel_ like. Fragments of bone digging into the wet, slimy organ that lives in the thing's head. Bet it happens quick. Bet it's like a flash-fire, like a lightning strike. White on black, a bolt of agony and then fading numbness. Lockdown busts open drac skulls like they're glass windows. She cracks their wrists before they can lay fire on her, turns the sand into a sludge of red underfoot. She always loses herself in it. Best to stay clear outta her radius unless you wanna get brained for stepping where you shouldn't.

Jolt and Demon're shooting, spraying raygun blasts into any shade of white they see. You're at the car, 'cause that's your fucking job. That's what you do. You fix the car, you watch the car, you make sure nobody fucks with the car, and _sure._ Fine. You can do that, can't you? You can do that without fucking anything up, yeah? Sure. You can _do that._

It's dusk, the sinking sun staining the horizon pink and orange. The pale silhouettes of dracs and whitejackets practically glow against the blueish cast of the sand. You sight down and fire at one that's sneaking awful close to the car. It scrambles clear of the blast and your aim ain't that great so you gotta scramble outta the car to try and ghost the bastard. It almost hits you more than once. A crackling laser burn fries the ends of your tangled hair and lights up the night with one of the worst smells in the world. Not as bad as it could be. You've smelled dead bodies before. Even worse, you've smelled 'em after they've started to rot.

The drac's trying to get away and you ain't one for that, not when it's still _shooting_ at you. You got short legs but you can take it by surprise by sprinting right for it. It don't expect that. Shoots off a couple times, hacks out one of those garbled, guttural sounds the things always make right before you fry its chest with a couple blasts of your raygun. It splays on the ground, bleeding smoke into the sky.

Yeah, you did that right, didn't you? Did a real good job of it. Fried that sucker like an egg. Make a real good fucking killer, don't you? _Don't you?_

Shut up. Shut up shut up shut up, _god_ , shut _up -_

Another bolt near your fucking face has you throwing yourself flat into the dirt rather than get vaporized. The dracs ain't running. Weird thing about this clap. Most of the time, if they're in a losing fight, they try to run. Jolt likes to laugh as they pick 'em off. Lockdown chases 'em down and bashes their heads in. These ones ain't running. They're dying faster and faster, but they ain't running.

They only stand their ground when they got something to fight for. When they got orders to fight for it.

The dying sunlight glints across something in the sand and then you see it.

Fuck, you _see_ it.

The shiny torso of a chromehead, one-armed and wide-eyed. Fancier unit than most. Almost looks human, except that the exposed circuitry at its shoulder's a dedicated snarl of wires and smoking scrap. Looks human enough to have a face. All expressive and shit. Probably belonged to someone real high up in the city, the kinda person you'd've never met, being the lowlife you were and are.

Can tell it's scared. It's fucked up. It's _fucked_ that they do that to their droids - program them to feel shit like that. To feel fear. Or maybe they didn't. Maybe they just kinda started feeling it anyway.

The dracs're fighting to keep this thing outta your hands. Dunno who the fuck it is or why, but you ain't about to let that stop you. One of the dracs grabs the thing around the neck and tries to drag it back and you fucking _burn_ that bastard alive with all you got. You light up the drac's skeleton with electromagnetic fire and yell. Sick freak, you fucking _monster,_ shouting and screaming and tearing it the fuck _apart_ -

"Monster!" Demon Daze is at your left. When the fuck'd that happen? _"¿Qué haces?_ Get back to the fucking car!"

"They got a droid!" You gesture with the barrel of your gun at the thing. It's staggering to its feet and it might be pretty fucking dark, sun sinking quicker and quicker, but you can see the scuff marks at its knees, the clothes hanging ragged off its frame. Like it stole them. Like it were trying to pose as human to get outta the city. Makes something in the bone cage of your ribs twist the fuck _up,_ closes the back of your goddamn throat.

"What?" Demon's looking at you like you've lost it. Funny. Pretty sure you've already fucking lost it. 

"They got a _droid!"_ You turn to wave at it, try and signal that _it's okay, you're friendly._

"Oh, fuck." Demon's face pinches and his gun snaps up.

You see it coming a second before it happens. Can't do a damn thing to stop it when he shoots the 'bot, snares it in the head, sends a blast through its eyesocket and blows out the back of its metal skull. It tips over backwards, steaming smoke. You can see its face from here, or the parts of it not scoured by the heat that ruptured the steel, frozen in an expression of horror.

The shout stops dead on your tongue. The fuck do you say to that? The droid lies prone in the sand, and there's still this firefight happening around you. Demon don't hesitate. He's mowing forward and shooting more spitfire down at the dracs.

Fuck that. Don't care.

You grab him by the shoulder and _pull._ He must be surprised enough to let you spin him around.

"The fuck was that for!" You're shouting. You're fucking _shouting,_ like your old man fucking used to. Violence, yeah. That's the kinda language he taught you. Only kinda language you get. Only kinda language you know how to speak. Fucking people up, people getting _fucked_ up. Always were gonna turn out like that. Thanks for the fucking genes, dad! Thanks for the fucking _memories -_

"What the fuck, Monster?" Demon ain't listening to you. His teeth're bared in a snarl. Things're never good when he stops smiling but he ain't smiling now and that's on you. "We're in a clap here!"

"Shot that fucking droid for no reason, you bitch!"

"That fucking - " Demon's face folds up, and _then_ he laughs. He laughs, and then it's like there ain't a firefight frying the air around you. The tang of ozone makes the roof of your mouth burn and Demon laughs and it ain't the kinda laugh you've heard from him before. It's cold and mirthless and then he stops all abrupt and looks at you. _"That's_ what you're all worked up about?"

"It weren't _doing_ nothing, Demon!"

"It was a fuckin' droid! They're BL/ind surveillance drones, same as anything!" He gestures at it with the barrel of his gun and snorts. "Fuck you. Fuck this. We ain't doing this now."

"The hell we ain't!" He turns and you grab him by the wrist again.

He backhands you.

"Fuck _off."_

You'd say you weren't expecting that, but that's a dirty fucking lie. You always expect that shit. Still manages to lay you out onto the ground. Demon Daze stalks toward you, and then a shot streaks outta the dark and pegs him in the shoulder. The impact tosses him partway to the ground. He shouts once, short and startled. You roll onto your side. Your gun - fuck! Where's it ended up? There. _There!_ Bit of white on the ground. Dunno if it's yours or some other drac's. Should paint your gun. Do something to make it stand out so you don't - why the fuck you thinking about that now? _Focus!_ Focus, motherfucker, _fucking focus!_

You shoot down the drac that nailed Demon in the shoulder and keep shooting 'till it ain't moving anymore and by then the clap's over. You get up slow, fighting the sting of the slap across your cheek. Trickle of blood's running down the side of your mouth where your teeth bit into your lip. You turn around to face Demon but he's already standing, looming over you the way he does.

He hits you again. Lays you out sprawling, flat on your ass.

"Fuck you," he says. Spits into the sand at your side. His shoulder's oozing sluggishly. Lockdown's already drawing even with him, her eyes dark and watchful. 

You try to scramble up. He braces his boot against your chest and _grinds_ you down into the dust instead. Your bad shoulder twinges in protest.

"What the fuck was that, Monster?" growls Demon. "You trying to get me ghosted? 'S that it?"

"The fuck's going on here, Demon?" says Lockdown.

"Little bitch picks a fight in the middle of a clap! Got me _shot,_ 's what."

Oh, you know that look. Know that fucking look. Been pinned with it enough. Loathing barely registers to you anymore. Slides off like rain, slick over the warm hood of a car. 

Be nice to be able to fucking get _up_ though.

You press your back against the cooling sand. The sun's slinking lower and lower, dimming the world around you. The car's still on. The headlights burn a pair of beacons into the gathering dark. The rumble of the idling motor's like a pulse in the back of your head. Calming.

" - just a tin can. What's it fucking matter?" You missed whatever Lockdown's saying. You tense up against the boot keeping you on the ground. Ain't so hard to grin. Real goddamn easy, in fact.

"Lemme up."

"So you can get me shot again?" says Demon. _"Chíngate,_ Monster. Not fuckin' happening."

Anger's a dull weight behind your ribs. Familiar, like the feel of skin on skin, the _slap_ that laid you out. The taste of teeth, the sting of the doorjamb against your brow. You fucking laugh when you feel it, when Demon says _fuck you._ Comes easy. Laughter always comes easy, you fucking freak.

"Lemme up, Demon."

"This a fucking joke to you?" Demon's teeth flash in a snarl. "You got me _shot!"_

"You shot that fuckin' droid!" Control. _Control,_ c'mon. Too late. It's already slipped. Your laugh's turned into a wild thing and the rage has leaked out all over you. Messy. Always so fucking _messy._ You think you can chain this thing back? Never could. You _never fucking could._

"It was a fucking junkheap!" 

"You don't know that!"

Demon snorts and says something that sounds vaguely like _"right,"_ but now the blood's really pumping in your ears. Your hands ball up into fists on the ground. The muscles're working in the core of you. You can feel them gathering up, clenching against the boot that's keeping you down. Getting hard to breathe. Getting hard to fucking _think._ Getting hard to picture anything, anything at all but reaching up and grabbing Demon's fucking face and _crushing_ it inward, caving in the fucking _bone_ until he leaks blood from his eyes, from his fucking _scalp._

It was a fucking junkheap. Just a droid. Didn't know what it was, who it belonged to, what it fucking did. Could've been anyone. Could've belonged to anyone. Just a droid. Just a fucking droid. Didn't matter.

You just - 

You saw its face, right as Demon Daze blasted its circuits all to hell.

It was scared.

The dracs, they were out there for the droid. You're pretty damn sure of it. _Real_ damn sure of it. Why else would they've stood their ground? They had a mission. A priority. A fucking target. They were gonna bring the droid back to Battery City. It weren't like the draculoids you've ghosted out here. It was out here for a reason. Maybe it ran. Maybe it ran for its fucking life and it wanted to escape the city, same as you. You dunno. You'll never fucking know _now,_ will you?

"You risked Demon for a tin can?" mutters Lockdown.

"Sounds like it," says Jolt, so quiet that you don't think you were supposed to hear.

"Is that what you did, Monster?" says Demon Daze. He grinds his boot harder into your chest, leans forward. His teeth glow in the semidarkness. "Is that what you _fucking_ did, _kono yarou?"_

What the fuck're you supposed to say to them? 

You look up.

What the fuck do they _want_ you to say to that? The droid was a tin can. Scrapheap. Junker. Piece of broken machinery waiting to happen. _Surveillance drone._ Demon Daze blew it away like it was nothing. Blasted it and didn't give a damn if it looked like it'd been running for days. Didn't give a damn that you saw its face, you _saw_ its fucking _face_ and you know like a knife to the fucking gut that it was _scared for its life._ You know that it was _scared_ but you got no clue why the knowledge of that sends a sharp stab through you, worse than any chunk of shrapnel or raygun blast. Worse than the needle that shaded the skin of your arm into dark fur and a clawed hand. Worse than a boot in the chest, pinning you to the ground.

First droid you fixed was one with no legs. You pulled the wires together and it thanked you. It was dying. Didn't have much more than a week's charge left. It just - it wanted to die with both arms. You fixed others like it. You fixed shorted circuitry and busted joints and fraying wires. You fixed them 'cause they could pay you, yeah? 'Cause they were an easy means outta Bat City? That's why you did it, right? Weren't doing it for no other reason, were you, you piece of shit?

"Yeah," you tell Demon Daze with a fucking _drawl_ and a wide-ass grin, shit-eating in the way you know he _hates._ Ha ha, _wow,_ why the fuck're you like this, huh? "Yeah. 'S what I did."

You laugh for a full fucking minute while Jolt Fuel hauls you to your feet and holds you in place and Demon Daze wails on you. When they drop you into the dust and leave you groaning and clutching your middle, you ain't laughing anymore, but that's more 'cause you're too busy coughing while Lockdown tugs your jacket off of you, takes it 'cause she fucking can. They all do it so effortless that it's like falling into a rhythm, falling into a familiar place. Knuckles bruise your right eye until it swells up into barely more than a slit. Fists in your ribs, a boot to the jaw - _no place like home,_ yeah? You grin's so crooked it feels like it's cut into your face. Your lungs feel static and hitch with every breath. You wheeze blood into the ground and lay there while the sands of Zone One steadily chill around you. The sound of the car fades quick into the hiss of the breeze and the sizzle of burned flesh charring into a crisp.

Breathing hurts. Everything kinda hurts. That ain't new. Like a fist in the front of your shirt. _I'll give you a reason to fucking cry, you ungrateful son of a -_ or like a chunk of shrapnel lodged into your fucking brain, a nodule of steel and rust sunk into all the delicate parts of you.

 _Delicate parts._ That's a fucking joke, right? Not a single part of you left that ain't been bludgeoned into something hard and violent as the desert you _ran to,_ 'cause you fucking _ran_ to this life. Don't forget it. Don't you ever fucking forget that you chose this, 'cause it was gonna be better than the city.

_Anywhere but here._

Every breath's a slow, pulsing ache winding up from the mural of bruises busted into your skin, zinging to the base of your spine. Lying here don't feel great but you're pretty damn sure that getting up's gonna hurt a hell of a lot more. Useless piece of shit. _Useless_ goddamn piece of _shit._

_Go to school or don't. Do I look like I care? I still see you in this house in the next thirty seconds, I swear I'll -_

You lie there groaning until your muscles hitch and shiver and you remember how to _kinda_ wanna live again. You stagger to your feet and it feels like you gotta hold yourself together, 'cause everything _hurts_ right about now. Pretty sure you've had worse. Gotta to've had worse, right? Your old man fucked you up plenty of times. _You don't like living under this roof, you can find some other place to crawl to for the night._ Somewhere out there, there's a memory of him doing something worse than what the Demon-Sharks just did to you.

You got chipped teeth and a nick taken outta your eyebrow and a split lip and a dozen other bruises to prove it.

The robot's lying where Demon left it. The smoke's still steaming faintly from the place where the blast burnt the chrome shell of its face in.

"Hey," you whisper. The inside of your mouth's all foul and gluey. The tack of your blood tastes like iron. You spit out a gobbet of it but it still clings. "Destroya. That's...that's who you follow, yeah? You droids?"

No answer.

Weren't expecting one.

What the fuck're you supposed to say to that?

"Sorry."

That's it. That's the most you got. An apology that don't mean shit, and the fact that you weren't able to keep Demon Daze from smoking this droid in cold blood.

The dead droid's got this weird bundle in its hands. It's squarish and boxy and when you pry the torn-up cloth and unwrap it, it ain't much of a shocker that it's covering this, uh, _box._ It's what's _in_ the box that you weren't expecting. Looks like someone put together a book with pieces of scratch paper and whatever the fuck they had on hand and bound it with cardboard and plastic and wire.

 _The Graffiti Bible,_ it says on the front in mismatched letters.

Heard those words a couple times in the Lobby. Droids used to preach that shit. 

They preached it with enough faith for it to apparently be worth dying for.

Teeth're chattering. Every part of you's shivering from the cold. You pick at as many of the draculoid jackets you can bundle yourself in to make it through the biting freeze of the desert night. Should try and sleep, but it's hard. Hard to keep your eyes shut when you see the droid's warped expression every time you close them. Hard to sleep in the open like this, huddled against the shell of a dead 'bot.

Guess you ain't a Demon-Shark anymore.

**\--**

**i have infiltrated you.  
now i am inside you like a disease.**

**\--**

It's a long trek to the High Stakes House on foot from Zone One. Probably a dumb idea to go looking for it, since it's real damn far out from where you started.

It's just that it's the only part of the Zones where you remember the people giving a damn about you, even if it was more that they gave a damn about your carbons.

Got no radio, got no wheels, got nothing. Picked some carbons from the pockets of the dracs, and picked nothing from the droid aside from the book it were carrying. It were important to it that it get outta the city, you guess, so you can keep it outta the city. Sure. The sand and wind'll bury the droid eventually, even if it feels like you should leave something for the Witch. Dunno where a mailbox is from here, and the Witch...She don't look after droids, does She? Droids look up to a thing called Destroya. Dunno much about them. Dunno much about the Witch, but you know even less about Destroya.

The Graffiti Bible says a lotta shit about Destroya. Got plenty of time to pick through it while you walk and you can read up on all the little bits and pieces about Destroya, about the razing of Bat City. About how a savior will come. They say _Destroya's child_ will burn the whole place down, and that Destroya himself'll wade into the destruction and turn Battery City to ashes. The droids'll see sunlight. The electricity'll stop. They'll see beyond the city lines. They'll be free. Destroya's heard their _fatidic songs_ and knows their suffering.

Got plenty of time to read through it out here.

Destroya. The god for the droids, the service units, the companion 'bots. God for destruction, energy, electricity, metal.

Dunno what Destroya does for the souls of the dead droids. The Bible don't say anything about that shit. Mostly talks about what's to _come._ That he'll show up, wipe the city off the map, save the day. Sure, all right. Sounds pretty damn great to you and everything, but that don't solve the problem of the people who're stuck there now, does it? What about the droids who gotta waste away, waiting for a salvation that ain't shown up yet? What about them, huh? What happens when their charge burns up? What happens to the dying droids you patched up in the Lobby? What happens to their souls?

That droid risked everything to get this Bible outta the city, and the book don't say a thing about what happens to the units like that one. What happens to a robot's soul when it dies? It just fade away, flicker out like fire?

Don't sit right to you.

But what the hell do you know, huh? You're a fucking kid trying to make it to the only shelter you can think of while trekking along with something that might be broken ribs, sure as shit _feels_ like broken ribs, so it's probably broken ribs. Who're you kidding? You know how broken ribs feel like. These're broken ribs. Guess the Sharks really did a number on you.

Demon Daze leaves you with busted ribs, a black eye, and the taste of cigarettes on your tongue. Kid like you can't afford to feed that habit out here, not out here. Goddamn him for leaving you with the nicotine drag in the back of your head. Goddamn him and goddamn the rest of the Demon-Sharks.

Should've kicked Demon's shit in while you had the chance. He dusted a droid that weren't doing nothing. Weren't hurting nobody.

What's it matter? You give a damn about droids now?

Shut up, shut up, shut _up,_ god.

Gotta keep your thoughts on track. Gotta keep yourself on track. Gotta make for the one place you remember. You got money. They'll still take you. They gotta still take you.

Takes you a couple days to make it to the High Stakes House. Occurs to you kinda late that the Demon-Sharks could _be here,_ oh _shit,_ but the place is more or less deserted when you stumble in at the heat of midday. Pressure Point says outright that you're a lucky bastard, 'cause the Sharks were here only a couple days earlier and they didn't look happy.

Don't got nothing to say to that. You pour sugar into their hand and tell them you gotta new design for them to pattern into you. Gotta tip them extra to make sure your ribs heal right, but that ain't a problem. You got plenty of carbons from the pockets of dead dracs. Got new battery packs to last you the coming weeks. Feeling all right. Burners like Pressure're loyal to whoever's paying them.

Takes a week for the fire in your ribs to die down to the _bearable_ side of _unmanageable_. Pressure Point lays your new design down your other shoulder, a tangle of gears and wires and mechanical pieces that interlock with one another, make it look kinda like you got robotic parts interleaved over the skin. It's all done up in black and gray, but Pressure knows how to shade the shapes so they look like they're _really_ there, does all the detailing over a matter of days.

Dunno what Destroya looks like. Think maybe he could look a little like this. Like something made of wires and steel, something forged so strong that no laser blast'd be able to fry him apart. Something strong enough to topple Bat City, wipe that _shit_ off the fucking map.

Be nice. Be real fucking nice if that could be it. The Witch, this ain't Her world. She guides the dead or some shit. Feel half dead some of the time, like now, but _half_ dead ain't close enough. If the Witch takes care of the dead then it's up to Destroya to keep an eye out for the living, yeah?

You don't got forever to wait. You gotta start running again. No idea when the Demon-Sharks'll come back to their old haunts and you don't wanna be there when they do.

But you don't leave empty-handed. You cram a bottle of pitch-black ink into your pockets on your way out. Let Pressure figure it out if it was you or not. Pretty damn sure nobody sees it, so they had it coming, didn't they? Kinda hoping that someone sees you sneaking it outta the joint, just to see what happens 'cause of it, but nobody does.

Give it time. They'll figure it out eventually. Everybody always does. Bet they'll fuck you up for real once they do.

**\--**

**monsters are needed  
monsters are necessary**

**\--**

It's tough getting by in the Zones without wheels. You catch rides with wandering crews when you can but none of them want much to do with you. One of them's got the balls to ask for c's in exchange for giving you a lift, which ain't the way things're done out here. People out here, they give each other rides to wherever it is they're going, and that's how it is. That's the Zone camaraderie. Been out here for months now so you can say it 'cause you _know_ it. Been out here for...fuck, how long's it been? Dunno anymore. Can't've been _that_ long, can it? Maybe a year. Maybe longer. Weren't no seasons in Battery City but out here time passes different 'cause mostly you been tracking time by whether you're in deep shit or transitioning from one puddle of deep shit to the next. Sometimes it's hard to make the call over which one it is and it don't get real obvious until after.

Whatever. Sure, sure. You could fuck up the zonerunners who tell you to _take a hike_ and kick up a stink but at the end of the day you can't blame any of 'em for not wanting to deal with you for longer than a day. You're kinda in the same boat. Car. Same thing. Only you don't get a _break_ from you, so the selfish bastards've gotta _rub it in_ by ditching you.

Your hair gets long and so fucking impossible to deal with that it becomes a snarled weight swinging along the base of your neck. You pick a knife from a ghosted burner off of Route Guano so you can use the blade to saw at the dark brown chunks of it, cutting away the tangled ends until it's cropped uneven and short. You leave fistfuls of your hair in the dirt. More than once the blade bites into your scalp and the back of your neck. You don't gotta bother worrying over whether or not that shit's accidental, or whatever. You know how it goes.

Your clothes're still too big for you but you can shoot a little better now and you got enough shit on you to keep you alive. You got a knife, you got a raygun, you got c's for whenever you hit a gas station or a BL/ind vending machine. You got pages and pages of songs and prayers and colors bound with wire and homemade twine, a sermon's worth of hymns to Destroya. _WHEN THE ELECTRICITY STOPS WE WILL BE SAVED._ You got a book full of a Zone god's lightning and no clue what to do with it.

Gas burns brighter and faster than anything. A match to lighter fluid can send an entire building up in flames, and an open flame near a gas station's bad news. You see one erupt in the middle of Zone Three and you got no place else to go so you wait until the smoke dies down and dig through the wreckage for anything you can salvage. You walk outta the half-collapsed building while it hemorrhages smoke into the fucking sky, stinking of smoke and devastation. The force of the impact crumpled the back of the BL/ind-brand vending machine set outside the station's wall, and you cut open your arms digging in past the buckled metallic backing, but it were free PowerPup and clean water and battery packs for the taking. Don't matter where it came from or why. Free shit is free shit.

The sun don't burn you as hard as it used to. Your skin feels like it's toughening up against those rays. The sand still gets in every-fucking-thing but you don't notice so much anymore. You still can't sleep through the earthquakes when they happen but it takes less time for your pulse to slow once you jerk awake. Your heart's atomic, throbbing gasoline through your wirework veins. You figure out what bugs you can kill and eat to stay alive. Know to stay the fuck away from tarantulas and lizards, 'cause tarantula hair makes your insides itch like _hell_ if you ain't real careful in burning it all off, and you know at least one poor fuck's died out here for not cooking a lizard good enough. Most bugs're safe though. Ain't any worse than eating PowerPup or the shitty protein blocks they fed you back in Bat City.

It's living. It hurts, it sucks, it scrapes. Always has. That ain't new. Fucking used to it by now, right?

Yeah, all right. You pick up a jacket with a shredded lining, this old leather thing that's way the hell too big for you, but you can keep the Graffiti Bible stowed away there. Getting used to the weight of it against your ribs. Getting used to sleeping in junked-up cars and empty houses. Getting used to sleeping in the same place as strangers (still jerk awake whenever someone twitches funny, whenever someone gets up, press yourself to the back of the wall until your spine aches until your fingers curl up around the handle of your blade _tight_ until your heart quits rabbiting in the shell of your chest) and you're getting used to sneaking into back rooms and stealing whatever you can lay your shitty little hands on.

That all hits a snag out in Zone Four. Was supposed to be a simple deal. Cased the place for half a day and it seemed all right. Was gonna be in and out. The back of this shed looked pretty nothing from the outside. Looked like a patched-up shack made from wood and shielded with scraps of corrugated steel, but you peeked on in and it were all full of old recording equipment - record players, mics, radios, shit like that. You ain't seen a lotta that shit in person but you know what the fuck it _is_. You seen some of it in action back at Dr. D's. That means this gear probably belongs to a DJ and if it belongs to a DJ that's gotta mean that the DJ's got some _fucking_ good tunes. Maybe even that new Mad Gear record that ain't real new anymore but that you never had a chance to hear proper. Pretty sure you ain't long for this world and you're gonna go out eventually some way or another. Shot to death by dracs. Sucked dry by the desert sun. Or just plain getting the shit beaten outta you by people who don't like the _look_ of you. It's inevitable that you're gonna shuffle off this mortal coil pretty goddamn quick and when you do you wanna go out having at least _heard_ that goddamned Mad Gear record, all right? Music were the only thing that kept you alive in Bat City some nights. So, sure. Sure it's worth dying for! What the fuck out here ain't?

It's in the heat of midday so you figure whoever owns this gear's probably asleep, and you're plenty quiet when you go digging through this shit. Not quiet enough, you guess. Shouldn't've froze up when you saw a motherfucking _BC-603_ lying there in the shed, unmanaged and unattended. No fucking way you could get this shit outta here unnoticed, but that's _vintage gear_ right there so the least you can do is get a good _look_ at it, yeah? The gray-green paint's flaked away into a dull silver at the angles, and half the knobs and dials look just about broken, but other than the obvious bits, it's in actual decent fucking condition. So what the fuck? How's someone score a thing like that? You flip it over 'cause you can't _fucking resist_ a thing like that, and god _damn,_ bingo. The DM34 switch is still intact, which means all you'd need, _technically,_ is a couple twelve-volts to get this sucker running again.

"All right, asswipe." That's the sound of a raygun clicking on, the tuning hum of a bat-pack warming up, and you freeze. Good. Great job, fucker. Really pulled off this heist nice and _swell,_ didn't you? "Hands up and step away from the gear." 

Nowhere to go. Can't hide. Could try and draw on them, see if you can shoot 'em down before they pin you with a blast to the fucking face, but you can tell their gun's already out and you ain't the best shot in the world anyway. Your eyes ain't the best. They weren't the best in Bat City and they ain't the best out here neither. 

So yeah, you turn around with your hands up. What choice you got? Maybe you'll get lucky. Maybe they'll fucking ghost you quick. 

Hard to say how old this rat is. Short. Not that much taller than you. Dark hair, black as anything and streaked with a neon blue. Dresses like a killjoy. Shirt striped in black-and-white, electric blue boots. Blindingly pink vest dotted with myriad buttons that click plastic with every tiny movement. Age is pretty hard to gauge 'cause of the dark goggles big enough to swallow up their eyes and nose. That and the yellow-and-black checkered bandana pulled up over the lower half of their face. 

Gotta raygun painted bright blue, pointed straight at you. 

Fucking perfect, ain't it? 

Caught you in the act. You're fucked. No point in pretending otherwise. You laugh, carve a slice through the static in the air, and wiggle your fingers. 

"Guilty." You singsong it out, making your voice high and pitched up in a way you know gets under people's skin. 

"Goddamnit." Right away, the rat reaches up, tugs the bandana low. Still hard to get a read on them when most of their face looks smeared with grit and char but there's a scar running unevenly down the line of their small, round cheek. "How _old_ are you, kid?" 

People still ask you that. 

"Old enough, short-stack." Old enough to've hopped Zones for something like a year now. Old enough to've killed people. Old enough to've figured out how to survive. People keep stopping short of killing you 'cause you look like you're _ten_ but that's a pretty dumb line to draw when you seen plenty of kids in the Lobby eat shit for less. 

Something tightens the corner of the Zone-rat's lips for a second. Whatever it is, it slips away quick. 

"All right, _all right._ Well, time to clear out, motherfucker. This ain't a loot cache, you got that? You dick around in my station again I'll put one in the back of your head." 

You gotta laugh at that one, a brisk snort and a snigger. They wanted to prove they could shoot you dead, they should've done that _first._ Takes some of the teeth outta the threat. 

"I mean it, _warugaki."_ They adjust their grip on their gun. "Were you messing with the radio?" 

"The fuckin' BC-603 you got back here?" Oh, what the _fuck_ did they think you'd be messing with, huh? "The casing ain't stripped or nothing. You could still get that shit running again if y'wanted, 'stead of lettin' it _rust_ back here." Just saying - if they ain't gonna make use of it then _you_ could. 

The burner goes silent. 

"You - _know_ what a BC-603 is?" No mistaking the surprise in their tone. 

"Nah, I'm just pullin' letters 'n numbers outta my ass." Start off with bite, start off with an _edge,_ and they can't never drag you back. You gotta fight for the ground you have. 

"Shut the fuck up." The rat reaches up and tugs off the goggles hiding their face. They got dark, narrow eyes and the shallow bridge of their nose is powdered with dirt. Their expression's guarded but their stare darts to and fro, like they're searching for something in you that you're pretty damn sure they ain't gonna find. "Seriously. How old're you, kid?" 

Your shoulders tip up in a dismissive shrug. You look like you know? You look like you _care?_

"What's it t'you?" 

"'Cause I don't fucking kill _kids,_ all right?" Starting to look annoyed. That's more your speed. Annoying people's the one thing you're really fucking _good_ at. 

_"Booooo."_ You stick your tongue out. _"Boring._ Bet'cha I can change your mind." 

_"Maji ka,"_ mutters the rat, rubbing a hand over their face. "Look. Fuck off and I won't shoot you, all right?" 

People never fucking learn. They never fucking learn that telling you that shit's a guarantee that they're gonna end up doing exactly that in a few minutes anyway. And you're in a room surrounded by this burner's _stuff._ Easy. This shit's _easy._

You grab the blocky chunk of radio, hug the BC-603 tight to your chest, and _grin_ at their stupid face. 

"Make me, bitch!" 

And you're running. Can't shoot you. Can't shoot you or they risk damaging the radio, and this is some old, _priceless_ shit. You hop outta the shed and you're fucking _running,_ sprinting out flat through the desert. Your laughter's sharp hitches and needles, jagged sound rupturing outta your throat like the burst of water balloons. It's making you stagger, making you run slow. Does it matter? Gonna get shot anyway. Gonna get caught anyway. Keep waiting for the sizzle of raygun fire over your shoulder, the searing blast that'll lay you low and turn your back into a smoking crater of cooked meat, but it don't come. 

What comes instead is the roar of a cycle at your back. 

Should've figured that. Maybe they'll fucking run you over. Fuck it, why not? You basically _fling_ the antique radio from a war so old you dunno the name of it, watch it bounce across the dust. It's old, but it's sturdy. Those old radios had to be built sturdy. They were seeded into tanks, wired into vehicles, meant to withstand the battery of heavy artillery and nuclear bombardments. It don't bust open, simply clanks to the ground. Now there ain't nothing to keep the set of tires from crushing your body, snapping your _spine,_ leaving you to fucking _rot -_

The roar of a motor gets closer and you're still laughing loud enough for the sound to catch behind your teeth. Tastes like ferment and bile and that makes you laugh harder, harder, _so_ hard that you stop running, double over, pour your sick sense of humor out into the fucking dirt under your feet. 

C'mon, _c'mon!_ Snap your spine, snap your neck! Run you over! Turn your body into a broken masterpiece, an ink-stained smear of blood and bone in the fucking dirt! 

The motor snarls closer, closer, c'mon, _almost_ \- 

It stops. 

It rumbles idly in your ears. You've shut your eyes, drawn yourself up tight, crouched to the ground with your hands over your head like you're waiting for the sky to fall. When the fuck'd that happen? When'd your hands turn into fucking fists, when'd your lungs constrict, when'd it get impossible to fucking breathe? 

'Cause you're laughing. 'Cause you're laughing so damn hard you can't _think._

The motorcycle's still purring, few feet away. Feet hit the dust and move closer. 

"Hey." 

C'mon, c'mon, get it together. _Scrape_ yourself together, you piece of shit. Useless piece of shit. You tuck one fist into your mouth and bite down 'till it hurts. Leaks red down the brownish tint of your skin. Fuck. Fuck. C'mon. Get yourself _together,_ c'mon - 

"Hey. Kid." 

You're laughing. Fuck, you're laughing so hard you're gonna be sick. Feel like you're gonna throw up. Oh god, _god,_ c'mon - 

"Kid?" 

A hand on your shoulder. _His_ hand on your shoulder, trying to rip you off your feet, trying to pick you up - _no!_ He don't get to fucking manhandle you anymore. He don't get to do _anything_ anymore. Gonna shred him gonna tear him to pieces gonna make him bleed from every part of him gonna gouge his goddamn _eyes out_ fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, _fuck_ you, _FUCK YOU -_

"Hey!" 

You're on your feet, wrenched upright, and you're barely an inch or so shorter than the Zone-rat facing you. Makes it easy to leer at 'em. They stand a few feet away, hands up, palms out, breathing hard. Shoulders heaving. There's a smudge of something like oil across their chin. Their eyes're blown so wide that you can see the whites around 'em. 

You're breathing hard breathing hard breathing too hard c'mon c'mon _c'mon._

"Kid?" 

You ain't been a kid in a long time. 

Dunno if you ever were one. 

Be nice if people quit calling you that. 

__

**\--**

**how is the hero meant to know they are good  
without something to measure themself against**

**\--**

The zonerunner you tried to rob weren't a zonerunner at all, technically. Turns out they're a she, and she's a DJ. Or she's gonna be. She says as much when she makes you carry that busted-ass tank radio receiver back into the busted-ass shed - oh, sorry, back into her fucking _station,_ if that's what they're calling _busted-ass sheds_ these days. So sure, whatever. It ain't a shed. It's a _station._ Station in progress. Something like that. Whatever.

Don't got a single explanation for why the fuck she ain't killed you. Pretty damn suspicious. People being nice to you for no goddamn reason's a real big red flag that there's some other shit going on and you dunno what the fuck that is yet. She got no reason not to waste you where you stand for stealing, but she don't. She says she'll let you go if you carry the stolen tech back to her fucking _station_ so that's what you do. Yeah. Sure. Fucking sure.

It's fucking suspicious as all hell, all right?

She gives you back the gun she took off you when she had you cart this shit back to her fake station and tells you not to bother her neck of the desert again.

You flip her off as you go. Don't think she sees.

You're back in less than a day. This is the only place you can find actual supplies for miles. Like hell you're giving up that easy. 

You hit the station again, this time late morning, and this time she almost _does_ shoot you. Sizzles the sand at your feet while you're running with some kinda handheld transmitter thing in hand. You dunno what the fuck it is. It's squarish, a little bigger than a handheld phone with a mounted screen to match. It's got knobs, digital numbers backlit in orange across the front. At the bottom, a ticker carries different freqs by name - _RFDD, BLND, WKIL, KLSK, HRBT._

It looked important and it were the first thing you saw that you could carry so you grabbed it. Figured maybe you could fence it to someone for some spare carbons 'cause you been _shit_ outta battery packs for miles now.

No reason she needs to know that.

"Goddamn it, _you_ again?" says the DJ. The words are high and irritated but they don't come close to _angry_. C'mon, you gotta be really pissing her off at this point, yeah?

Apparently not.

"Gimme that shit," she says, holding out a hand.

You laugh at her.

"Make me, bitch."

"No," snaps the DJ. _"No._ We're not doing this again, kid. Now hand it over."

Could go along with it. Could hand the shit over, no problem. You could, _sure_ you could. It'd be easier for everybody. But when the fuck've you ever done shit 'cause it's _easy?_

You run.

She catches you.

She's gotta wrestle the thing outta your hands while you try and bite her, but she's got these fingerless gloves on and she swears you out but she don't flinch.

"The hell you want with a PTTP, anyway?" she says, shoving you back to the ground. "You got any idea how trackable these things are?"

You don't got an answer to that other than the obvious. You spit blood onto the sand and grin at her. You can taste the red staining your teeth.

"Fuck you."

You watch her as she undoes the bandana around her neck and looks at you. She's got this gap in her front teeth. Stands out when she takes in her lower lip. She's doing it now, chewing on it as she looks at you, flicking you up and down with those sharp, dark eyes.

"You gotta name, kid?" she says finally.

"Guess."

Her expression flattens into something fucking resigned and the laugh boils up and outta you before you can bite it back. Look, _lady,_ you don't like that you're like this either, but at this stage, you've kinda learned to roll with it. She don't like it, she can do something about it. Like _put one in the back of your head_ like she said she would.

"If you don't gotta name, I'm just gonna call you 'freak,'" she says, matter-of-fact. And hey, you been called worse things. Way worse things. "That cool with you, freak?"

You start laughing _real_ hard at that one, 'cause you ain't even the only freak out here. Just, you know - not a real indicative name or nothing. Ain't really that fucking funny but nothing's fucking funny about any of this and here you are still laughing. 

"You gonna dick around, fine," says the DJ. "But you fuck with my station again and I swear to god, I'm taking you to Gravel Gertie's and _she_ can deal with you."

Dunno who the fuck _Gravel Gertie_ is, but it don't matter. What matters is that's a fucking lie. The third time you rob her, you try to take her motorbike. How the fuck were you supposed to know it was keyed to some kinda unique kill-switch, a sequence only she knows. Pretty goddamn genius. You'll give her that.

Don't make it too far the third time, for obvious reasons. The bike stalls out before it really gets going and falls over and traps one of your legs underneath the chassis and the DJ finds you swearing up a storm in the middle of the goddamn night. You can feel the metal pressing into the joint of your knee and the ache don't have to last long before it starts to feel like the bones're getting crushed. 

The DJ shines a roadflare down at you as you lie there. The end hisses, throws up flickering sparks that reflect off the dark shine of her goggles.

"You don't have a pair of wheels," says the DJ, crouching down in front of you, "do you?"

You don't got shit to say to that. It's fucking obvious, right? All you gotta do is bare your teeth at her like some goddamn _animal_ and start laughing again. You can't get up and when she levers the bike off you, your gait's uneven and your leg throbs mercilessly. Pretty sure if you bolt she can chase you down but that don't mean you won't give it a shot anyway to see where it fucking takes you. 

Except ten minutes later, you're back in her station. She wheeled her bike back to where she keeps it and then headed right the fuck back out and you were still there trying to make good time with a leg full of clenched nerves and strained muscle.

Still got no goddamn explanation for why she ain't killed you. Got no fucking explanation for why she's giving you the time of day instead of leaving you out in the Zones to fucking rot like she should.

She don't say a thing about any of it. About the obvious issue where she's putting extra work into keeping you alive. Ditching you'd be one thing. Killing you'd be easiest. But this?

Don't make any goddamn sense.

"Spent a lotta time putting this shit together," says the DJ, pushing her goggles up so that they're perched on top of her head. Her bangs poke out unevenly from underneath the dark lenses in a fringe of black and blue. She looks the same as she did the first time you saw her: small, Japanese, clad in about three different multicolored layers of achingly bright material. "Still setting up for broadcast."

You don't say shit. She looks at you for a second, sitting there among the stacks and heaps of old recording gear and assorted garbage, then shakes her head. Must be content you ain't gonna split anytime soon, and sure, she ain't wrong. Be nice if you could, but your leg throbs like a bitch and it's stuck out awkwardly from the busted crate you're sat on.

The DJ mutters something under her breath in Japanese and kneels down and starts digging through the shit heaped around in the shed. She comes up with some tool she uses to pick at the BC-603 you tried to steal only a couple days earlier, trying to jimmy at the DM34 switch and you'd sit there and let her take the thing apart but you can tell she's fucking with it in all the wrong ways and that's gonna drive you up the _fucking wall_ if she breaks this damn near priceless, ancient piece of tech that shouldn't by all rights _be_ here - god. _God!_

"You're gonna fuckin' break it," you snap at her. "The fuck's wrong with you?"

"Oh, _you_ wanna try?" she says all airy, without looking up.

You're moving before you can work out what the fuck you're doing and why, awkward and uneven on account of your leg, but that don't stop you. Don't bother grabbing the tool outta her hands. What is that, a wrench? Pliers? Fuck it. You don't fucking care. You look like you fucking care? You _don't_ fucking care. One look at the casing tells you the screws've rusted and more or less fused the thing shut which ain't real _surprising_ but it makes it tougher than taking a screwdriver to the stuff and being done with it.

"You gotta _clean_ this shit before you go crackin' it open." You tap at the switch casing with two grubby fingers. "And use a _screwdriver,_ Christ. You don't wanna go bustin' open a battery case. You'll fuck the wiring. The fuck's wrong with you?"

"Nothing," says the DJ, leaning back. Now she's wearing a smirk that dimples up one side of her face. "Just wanted to see how much you know about takin' care of this shit."

Jesus, fuck, c'mon. You let her play you like that? Let her dig under your fucking _skin_ like that? It were easy. She barely had to do a goddamn _thing._ Just sat there and let you fucking walk right into her fucking _hands_ , you brainless _fuck,_ you idiot, you goddamned _moron -_

"NewsAGoGo," says the DJ. She sticks out a hand, stained with sweat and grease and god knows what else. "Look. Kid. You are," she stops to suck in a breath before she laughs, high and breathless, _"the_ first person I've met in _years_ who can peg a BC-603 in record fucking time on _sight._ First time you broke in, you could've picked up any of the shit I had laying around here, but you zero in on the oldest piece. Weren't for nothing, neither. You know how to take this thing apart."

Okay. Okay. Fine. So you know shit about wires. You know shit about electronics. You know shit about _hardware._ Don't seem to matter what they are. Cars, robots, radios, TVs, whatever. All one and the same to you. Come together easy, same as anything. Snapshots of magazine pages, diagrams in manuals, all stashed easy like freeze-frames.

"So?"

"So I'm setting something up out here," says NewsAGoGo, and she leans in close. Her eyes are dark with excitement, obvious by the way her smile eats up half her face and it looks like she's trying to wrestle it back but can't quite make it. "A radio station. But - more than that. You out here when the Analog Wars happened? You out here when the Great Fires happened?"

You weren't, technically, but those're details that you don't gotta get into right now and you know the basics of it anyway. You nod. Sure. Yeah. You were out here, or whatever. Close enough.

"I think I've got way to fight back." She ain't bothering to tone down the shine of her grin anymore. It's bright and _excited,_ cutting through the dust-eaten silence of this old-ass shed. "I mean _really_ fight back. Fuck up BL/ind for everything they did to us. And the more people in on it, the faster it happens. You know?"

 _Do_ you know? 

Maybe.

Ain't that simple.

That was the mantra the Demon-Sharks carried with them - fuck BL/ind up. Blamed the killjoys for turning Zone Seven to ash, and threw themselves at the dracs to compensate. Said they weren't killjoys, even if they ran like them, lived like them, killed like them. Hated the radio, hated the sounds of the DJs who rambled on about the 'joys found dead in the Radiation Belt. Told you to turn that shit off whenever you messed with it. 

"You a killjoy?" you ask her.

She laughs.

"In the eyes of the BL/ind, aren't we all?"

That ain't what you asked. Pretty sure that's the closest you're gonna get to an answer. Also pretty damn sure you won't be able to get the knife outta your boot quicker than she can draw her gun and incinerate you for acting up.

"I ain't," you tell her.

"You're out here, aren't you?" One of her eyebrows quirks upward. "Dust angels, Zone-rats, rubberburners - we're all _killjoys_ to them. We don't live under their law."

"Killjoys fought the war." You know what the fuck a killjoy is. Soldier. Person who fought in the Analogs. "They _lost."_

"Yeah," says NewsAGoGo quietly, and her expression closes up a shade. "Yeah. They did. But the war's not over." Her hand rests against the blocky shape of the BC-603 receiver, this fucking _relic_ from before the Analog Wars, before the Helium Wars, before all the _other_ wars that ravaged the fucking planet. "You know why they called 'em that? The Analog Wars?"

You didn't mean to get dragged back into here for a history lesson. But then, you'd never learn about this shit in Bat City. The idea that it'd piss off BLi, that a Ritalin Rat like you's learning the real story behind the Wars, that's what has you shaking your head and waiting for an answer.

"It was the radios," says NewsAGoGo. She picks up the thing you tried to steal the _second_ time you busted in here, the thing she called a PTTP. "The Zones started mass-producing these as soon as the first killjoys broke from BLi. Called 'em PTTPs. Portable Television Transmission Projectors. Easy to hack, easy to track, but real good at catching every signal under the sun."

She hands it to you like she ain't even thinking about it, digging at some of the other, old shit she got lying around. You let it settle in your palm, turning it over in your hands. You tried to steal this a couple days earlier, and here she is handing it to you for no goddamn reason. But then again there's no real risk of you making a run for it while you're like this. Don't mean it don't chafe.

"That was the thing about Bat City," she says. "You know the Inner-Internet?"

Inner-Internet was for people who had it better than a rat like you, but sure, you know what the fuck it is. Anybody who grew up in the city knows what the fuck it is.

"All digital," you say, 'cause you're starting to see what she means. Lights something up underneath your heart, an electric jolt jumping from your spine to your teeth.

NewsAGoGo nods. Her eyes're bright. "Exactly. BL/ind controls _all_ of it. What's available to the public, what isn't. BL/ind had a chokehold on _everything,_ every site. So we had to make this shit all _analog_ \- CB radios, short-wave signals, anything that BLi couldn't throttle or tap into. And they tried, _god_ they tried, but even if they drowned some of those airwaves, they couldn't stamp out _every_ signal. Not for good."

Analog Wars. Ain't never asked why they was called that.

"Look, I haven't worked out how it's all gonna run yet," says NewsAGoGo. "But when it does, that's how it's gonna happen. That's how we hit 'em hardest."

It weren't real clear why she was telling _you_ this shit, except you _think_ you can tell where she's headed with this. Only that don't make any goddamn sense. Why the fuck'd she go there? You tried to rob her. _Three times._ You injured your leg trying to steal her fucking cycle, and here she is, looking at you like that ain't the case.

"With one DJ and some busted gear?" Your grin's crooked as shit, y'know. 'Cause of a chipped incisor and places where your teeth were busted up and knocked off-kilter.

"Gear can be fixed." Her eyes flick to you and away again. "You know how to fix it."

 _That's_ the funniest thing she's said all night. You bark out a shout, the loud, raucous kinda cackle that generally has people cuffing you 'round the head to get you to shut the fuck up. She waits 'till you're finished, don't say a word.

"Oh, what?" you laugh. "You gonna hire some kid?"

NewsAGoGo snorts.

"Bitch, I been living out here my whole life. There aren't any kids in the Zones. Not really." Something in her expression eases a little, softens in this way you can't quite figure out. "Just think maybe one day there could be."

Dunno what she means by that.

Except you guess you kinda do.

"Weren't no kids in Bat City neither." It ain't much of a peace offering. It's the most you got.

NewsAGoGo looks at you and you can't tell what the emotion's sitting on her face. You ain't used to being looked at with anything but the range of anger to annoyance, and you _earn_ that shit. Spent your whole life earning that shit.

"No," she says. "Guess not."

She links her fingers together, stretches her arms above her head, presses the palms of her hands out until you hear the knuckles crack, and rolls her neck on her shoulders.

"So, freak," says NewsAGoGo, nice and easy, "what d'you say? Help me get this station running. Swear to _god,_ when the job's done, you can be on your ownsome all you want. But if you're gonna _bug_ me all hours of the day you might as well do it with a place to sleep _and_ \- " She holds up a finger. "You might as well do it while getting to work with _prime_ gear that I guaran _tee_ no other DJ in the Zones has got. And you can trust me on that one. I _know_ every DJ in the Zones."

You've run with crews before. You've run with survivors like Flashburn who didn't give a shit about any wars that came before them, and you've run with killers like the Demon-Sharks who only wanted to ghost dracs and have a disco doing it. Neither of them cut very far into what the killjoys were. Neither of them did much in the face of BL/ind, that hulking white city that still haunts your dreams, still gleams on the horizon when you get close enough. They killed dracs and it were easy, sure, but it didn't do a damn thing in the long haul. It didn't prove nothing to nobody. It was death, it was done and dusted, and none of it taught BL/ind nothing. The dracs kept coming. They never fucking stopped. Beating in their skulls, ghosting them into nothing - there'd always be more of 'em to do the same as the ones that came before.

Maybe it's 'cause there's no room for shit in the desert like _hope._ That's what Demon Daze'd say, you bet.

Haven't had a lotta time to think about that out here. Haven't given yourself the chance to. But you got the time now so you think about how NewsAGoGo says she been living her whole life out in the desert, whatever the fuck that means, and how long she's been out here. You and her and bitches like Tommy, you're fucking lucky. You're luckier than any of the other Ritalin Rats who never got outta the city, any of the Juvie Halls who got bleached and conditioned into nice, quiet BLi drones. You're luckier than the dogs your dad bred and raised in the Bat City kennels.

You don't like thinking about Pandora, 'cause mostly you get stuck wondering what's happened to her and the agony of not knowing. Not knowing's the hardest bit. You got no fucking clue what's happened to her, or anyone else you met in the Lobby. You got no clue what's happened to the droids you used to fix. They have anyone else to go to now, or are they stuck dying, unable to pay for plus or afford new batteries?

It ain't those thoughts that surprise you. You spent most of your days out here avoiding thinking about them. It's the way they cut into the core of you, slide cold fingers down your throat and squeeze your airways shut for half a second and make it hard to breathe, hard to swallow.

"Hey. Freak." You ain't said a word in a while. NewsAGoGo's staring at you. "You really gonna leave me hanging?"

You could. Could walk the fuck away right now just to see the look on her face, just to see what'd happen, just to see how _mad_ she'd get. She said she don't shoot kids. Bet you could prove her wrong. Bet you could _make_ her.

What'd happen if you did, huh? What'd happen? Maybe you'd end up killing her in the shootout. She'd regret it then, wouldn't she? She'd regret it, regret giving you the time of day when you crack her head open on the corner of the shed, open up her neck into a geyser of red with the serrated edge of the knife in your boot, could tear her apart could tear it all the _fuck apart_ and she thinks she can talk you into behaving? You think of digging a dull knife into the place beneath her sternum and ripping her the fuck open so the wet slop of her insides come boiling out like bloat and bile. Thinks she can negotiate with you? Little fucking _freak,_ little _monster,_ you absolute _fucking nightmare -_

One way or another you ain't gonna stay here forever. You never do. You know that. Don't ever take long for someone to toss you to the wayside. Temporary shit. You stick with people and eventually they get sick of you so how's this gonna be any different?

Difference might be in what this _is._ Not a gang, not a crew, not a group that already knows each other that you end up tagging along with until they sigh and let you run with them. It's something else. Something almost like a -

You ain't gonna call it _hope._ You ain't gonna call it nothing but what it is. A pit stop. Temporary. Ain't nothing lasts forever except death.

You look at her.

"Monster."

Her eyes squint a tad, pinching slightly in confusion.

"What?"

"My name ain't _freak,"_ you tell her. "It's Monster."

She digests that a moment. 

Then she smiles, sharp and lopsided.

"Okay, Monster," says NewsAGoGo. "I can work with that."

**\--**

**the heroes are necessary too  
how is the monster supposed to know they are bad  
without a shining someone to make them hurt**

**\--**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End Notes:
>
>> 1\. As ever, there are quite a few references scattered throughout this work. The title of this chapter is a reference to the 2018 re-release of the Team Ico game _Shadow of the Colossus_ , as well as to the _Danger Days_ album itself; the official version of the album, without the bonus tracks, runs at almost fifty-four minutes exactly, give or take a few seconds. The name of the character of "Demon Daze" is a reference to the 2005 Gorillaz album, _Demon Days,_ which was a huge tonal inspiration for me for much of this work. This chapter contains a shoutout to both Red Vox's "Reno" and Fall Out Boy's "Bob Dylan." The line breaks feature two poems between them: the first is a composition from one of the old journals of Pete Wentz, and the second is a [poem](https://nathanielorion.tumblr.com/post/181597107708/monsters-are-needed-monsters-are-necessary-how) by Nathaniel Orion, G.K.
>> 
>> 2\. This chapter featured a couple bit characters who, one way or another, didn't end up having terribly involved parts. If anyone's curious, their full names, in order of appearance, are: XO-Skeleton, Nico Teen, and Pepper Streak. "Pepper Streak" is a reference to the 2008 indie RPG _OFF_ , namely the primary combat theme, "Pepper Steak."
>> 
>> 3\. Again, while I'm not the best at rendering tattoos, I did my best to illustrate them for the sake of visualization. Here's my best attempt at Ghoul's [fourth and fifth tattoos](https://i.imgur.com/vvacdf7.png), as well as his [sixth](https://i.imgur.com/IQPHZuW.png).
>> 
>> 4\. I had to cook up some character reference sheets for my own use for characters who featured in this chapter most prominently. For the curious, here are my visualizations of [Demon Daze](https://i.imgur.com/3guXL8B.png), [Lockdown](https://i.imgur.com/Gh8PB0f.png), and [Jolt Fuel](https://i.imgur.com/WxOvZjD.png).
>> 
>> 5\. Lastly, I'd like to direct everyone's attention to this [incredible artwork](https://tapefish.tumblr.com/post/613606345279700992/pov-local-gremlin-just-made-off-with-your-wallet) that the very talented [tapefish](https://tapefish.tumblr.com/) did for the last chapter. The level of detail and composition is nothing short of stunning, and I just about lost my mind when I saw it for the first time.
> 
>   
> Also, I keep forgetting to mention this, but I made a [writing tumblr](https://graffitibible.tumblr.com/). It's not very exciting, but if you ever feel like sending me questions or just babbling about the Danger Days universe with me, feel free to poke me over there if you feel like it. 


	3. salvation: overrated, outdated, overstated, and just another word for "false hope"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prior to reading the third part of this installment, please be advised of the following content warnings. First of all, you may assume that many of the warnings listed at the beginning of this work will remain in effect. In particular, the self-loathing, intrusive thoughts, and disordered thinking present in the narration all remain prevalent for much of this chapter. Themes of self-harm and suicidal ideation are also recurrent in this section.
> 
> Additionally, this chapter deals with a few instances of underage drinking and smoking - the characters in question are teenagers and these habits dovetail into pre-existing self-destructive tendencies. This does include some casual joking about alcoholism as well as some scenes that include vomiting. There is some mild flashbacking pertaining to trauma surrounding animal death and forced medication. There are some small discussions of gender and introspection related to gender expression and identity, some of which do relate to Ghoul's history with abuse. Ghoul also frequently draws parallels between behaviors he picked up as maladaptive coping mechanisms to his history with abuse. His perception of himself and his likening of his survival instincts with abusive behavior is a consequence of his upbringing; it is not an accurate assessment of his neuroses or trauma, and does not reflect the viewpoints of the author.
> 
> Lastly, I'll note that this chapter makes use of a custom work skin. Disabling the creator's style may cause the chapter to look janky (though I don't know to what extent), so I recommend keeping that style on, if possible.

**\--**

**ma said i have soothsayer hands, amputated at each  
joint to fit the future in between,  
knuckle-sore and bitten.**

**\--**

"Okay," says GoGo, "try it now." Her perch on the roof is precarious, one leg dangling off the corrugated metal overhang with the other hooked around the securing mast she's using to anchor the dipole. Right now it's about ten feet off the ground so that means there's roughly this ten foot drop seaparating NewsAGoGo from becoming a spatter of meat and paste on the sand.

'Kay, maybe that's overselling it. A drop at that height'd break a leg or something. Probably won't kill her.

"You'll get better range if you do it digital," you tell her, not for the first fucking time.

"I got a mile-long list of reasons why I'm _not_ doing that," says GoGo. "So try it now."

You roll your eyes and slouch back into her station, hunker down in front of the nested stacks of mismatched gear. You been helping GoGo put together her rig for the better part of a week now, helping her set up the antenna support and pulley off the side of her shack even if you sure as _shit_ ain't cut out for construction. So far the signal don't go near as far as she wants. Digital voice would have a hell of a longer reach than FM but whatever, y'know, what the hell do you know? You ain't the DJ here. You're just a kid who's read a lotta shit, who's got a mind for machines, who picks up things quick. She went to all the effort to get your help and it's like she don't care what you gotta say. But she were adamant on doing this all analog.

This is the bit that's best done with two sets of hands. GoGo's busy rigging the antenna on the roof and she needs someone down here to gauge what the range is like. Flat-ass expanse like the desert, that makes it easy for most waves to carry, so it ain't a question of location and it sure as hell ain't a question of resources. Most of her gear's pretty goddamn dated but there's a few choice bits that can make it work if she wants to get her words out to as many ears as possible.

Which, y'know, sure. Kinda the point.

"All right," GoGo calls from the roof, only faintly audible. "Let's try the 20m again."

"Sure you don't wanna start on 40?"

"20m, Monster. That's what we're aiming for so that's what we're starting with, _wakarimasu ka?"_

Sure. Whatever. Fine. She can't see you rolling your fucking eyes from where she's at anyway. It's her station, so she'll run it however the fuck she wants. You settle behind the transceiver setup laid out on the desk. GoGo's got these old-ass chunky white headphones that you're pretty sure're some outdated model of the BL/ind-brand headgear everybody wears in the city. They're way too fucking big for you, nearly slip off your head when you tug them on. 

GoGo has you sit there and fiddle with the transceiver, tweaking knobs and flicking switches and combing through the bands on the hunt for chatter to report back quality. About twenty minutes of this while you stare at the duct-taped mic stand sat on the desk at a crooked angle. 

A week of back-and-forth, of climbing onto the roof and making adjustments, of digging pits so you can anchor a pole in place, set insulators at either end of the dipole running from mast to roof, and it still ain't enough. GoGo's got this tiny-ass room off the old shed with its walls of crimped, rusted steel, but the shed's the only place with any real _space_ and it's where she's gotta keep her power supply. Her side room ain't much bigger than a closet and it's kinda where she lives and sleeps. It's only in times like these that you get to see it. There's a lengthy desk lining one wall and a fold-up cot on the other and the rest of the space is eaten up by cables and mics and god knows what else, stacks of speakers and mismatched radio equipment. You perch in a swivel chair upholstered in torn shit-brown fabric, set up in what little space is left. Can barely see the walls of worn wood that look like they been there since before the goddamn Helium Wars.

You sleep in the shed, which looks like it were some kinda storage space or garage or something before GoGo got her hands on it. You sleep in the tangles of dead machinery and you keep what few belongings you have on hand. An old Bible you took off a dead droid. Your gun, plain and white and unpainted but the same one you took off the drac you ghosted the night you got outta Battery City. A pair of shoelaces you keep tied 'round your neck, like you need the fucking reminder of where you came from. A knife sheathed in your boot. A bottle of ink you stole outta Zone Two. The clothes on your back, rags you tore off corpses nestled in bodybags.

It's a goddamn wonder that NewsAGoGo trusts you to sleep in this space and not duck out with an armful of her radio tech in hand. Actually, nah. "Trust" is overselling it. More like there ain't nowhere to go for miles. You wouldn't get far before she'd notice.

"All right," says GoGo, making you jump. Her head's upside-down and two feet away from you. Her hair dangles down in a disheveled shock of neon-streaked black as she hangs over the edge of the station ceiling to call to you through the window that ain't a _window_ so much as it's a square piece cut outta the walls that ain't been filled in with glass in god knows how long. First time she pulled that you nearly shot her goddamn head off. "Now see if we can tune into 109 from here."

You can call to each other just fine without her sticking her head down here, so there's no goddamn reason for her to be chatting face to face, upside-down through the fucking window. Pointing that out has her mocking you for being a scared little baby so you don't say shit about it.

The static gets too heavy by the time you hit the upper FMs. GoGo swears under her breath while she climbs back into the station through the window. She does this as easy as someone might get into a car, like it's fucking reflex.

"Damn," she mutters, sucking at her lower lip. "What d'you think? Sloper on the roof?"

"Why the hell d'you wanna tune into 109?" You yank off the headphones and toss them to the desk. "Y'want long-range, and you got that. 20m's best."

"Friend's station," says GoGo. She studies the transceiver like you ain't there. You get up outta the chair and she takes your place without looking at you. "I gotta pick up on what the other DJs are sayin'. Need to be able to do FM _and_ AM scans."

"Didn't think you had friends."

"Got more friends than you, freak." She grins as she looks at you. A week on, and she ain't stopped calling you that. "I'm the only friend you got."

"We ain't friends."

She don't bother contesting that. Probably 'cause you're right.

"Sloper on the roof might boost our signal," says GoGo, picking up the conversation where it left off. "If nothin' else, it'll give us a broader range of bands to go through."

"Sure," you mutter, digging through her assorted crap on the search for something that might work for a down-lead. The tuner's the easy bit; you can bootstrap the coax between that and the transceiver, easy, but you're gonna need a mount if GoGo wants to start hanging shit off the roof. With all the junk she's got in here, there's gotta be _something_ lying around that'll work, right? Statistically speaking.

"We need to hit as many bands as possible."

You don't point out that she keeps saying it, _we,_ like you're some kinda team in all this.

"You spit that much static into the air, BL/ind's gonna notice," you say, 'cause there's a _reason_ there ain't that many DJs out here. There's way more zonerunners and motor-rats than there are people chattering away on the MFs.

GoGo's watching you. You can feel her eyes on you but you always know when people're watching you. Can't remember a time you didn't track people, aware of them the same way you're aware of a fully charged weapon in the room.

"Hey," she says. Her hand hovers up over your shoulder before she snatches it back. First time she grabbed you without warning you nearly body-checked her into the fucking wall and 'cause you're roughly the same height it almost kinda _worked._ She learns fast. Hasn't tried again. "C'mon."

She's looking at you and you can tell why she always wears those goggles of hers, 'cause when she don't have them on it's _painfully_ fucking easy to read her. She looks uncertain, guilty even, and hell if you can say why. She's got no goddamn reason to look at you and be guilty of anything. There ain't nothing wrong with your life that you didn't bring on yourself.

You narrow your eyes at her.

"C' _mon,"_ says GoGo again, this time pitching the word all casual, drawing it out. She stretches her arms above her head, pops her neck, playing it off. "We been at this for hours - I need a break. And I'm not letting _you_ hang out here on your own."

Well, hey, it ain't for no reason. She leave you here on your own and you'd pinch something and bolt. You both know it. Only reason you never could before was 'cause trying to jack her motorbike ended up almost crushing your leg. Took the week for you to quit walking with a limp.

So she don't trust you to still be here when she comes back.

Can't say she's wrong.

**\--**

**i bury my heart in a metal box in the earth  
and march my body up top a hill and build myself a pyre.**

**\--**

The Cemetery Window's a drinking joint in Zone Three, several hours' worth of driving away from GoGo's station. That don't stop her from cycling the pair of you over there. You let her take you on the account that you're armed and you know the extent that she's armed too - you know where she keeps her gun, her spare bat-packs, where she keeps _every_ weapon on her person. She don't think you know but you do. That were the _first_ thing you picked up on. The places where her clothes had an uneven weight to them, the bulges in her pockets. You know the shape of a raygun tucked behind somebody's waistband.

Her taking you to the Window weren't a choice and it weren't dressed up as one. But it were _you_ holding onto her as she drove and not the other way around, and that sorta almost made it bearable.

The joint's a dark place with a low-hanging ceiling and a laconic bartender who glares at you when you enter. Not GoGo. Just you. Pretty used to that by now, and GoGo clearly knows them from previous visits. She tosses them a nod as she settles at a table and beckons for you to follow. You sit yourself so that you're in the corner of the room, back to the wall with the widest angle of the place, empty as it is. It's you and GoGo and a handful of other Zone-rats, at least two waveheads. You note each of them, note the presence of the weapons at their hips.

"Kerosene knows me," says GoGo, her tone low and confidential. "They got this special shit - off-menu. But you gotta order in Cantonese."

You ain't sure why she's telling _you_ this. You look like you care?

When the bartender draws near, she says a couple words in a language you don't get and smiles. Their eyes level on you, small and dark and suspicious, but they don't breathe a word otherwise. They're smallish, golden-brown skin, with a wide nose and black hair shaved in an undercut. The bar's lighting glints off the glossy, sideways tuft of it.

"How old're you, Monster?" says GoGo, not looking at you. She's counting carbons out on the table between you. This ain't the first time she's asked you.

You shrug, 'cause hell if you remember at this point. 

"It really matter?"

"I ask 'cause you look like you're ten," says GoGo flatly. Can always trust NewsAGoGo not to mince her words. "And maybe you aren't, but word of advice?" She leans close, lets her eyes flick up to meet yours. They are, if possible, even darker than your own. They're almost ink-black. "Nobody out here's gonna check. If you can pay, they'll serve you anything."

She laughs as she leans back in her chair, and Kerosene thunks two bottles onto the table. She pushes one in front of you and winks.

"Kerosene's _extra_ special Lighter Fluid," says GoGo. "Enjoy. But drink slow."

You don't get what the fuck she means by that until you take your first swallow.

You almost spray liquor across the fucking table, nearly shower her in it. You splutter, coughing at the vile, chemical cling to the back of your throat.

_"Jesus Christ,"_ you choke out, tight and thin, when your voice returns.

GoGo's laughter is high and hissing as she jerks back in her seat.

_"Told_ you it's strong shit!"

It _is_ strong shit. The fact that she don't seem to expect you to finish it makes you all the more devoted to draining the entire fucking bottle even if it tastes like paint thinner.

This ain't such a great idea, you learn when you're coughing up your insides an hour later. Your lungs feel like they're boiling. Every part of you feels like it's on fire as you hunch over the stalls in the back of the Cemetery Window, spitting out wet hacks of bile.

GoGo keeps you on your feet. When you crumple against her, greased with cold sweat and panting hard, she pushes the hair outta your eyes and whispers, _"sorry."_ Every muscle in your body trembles like you just been taken off the pills for the first time. You don't got the strength to shove her away. You lean against her and spit sick into a toilet bowl that's probably seen better days.

She takes you back to her station where you sleep for twelve straight hours.

When you wake up, it's in the cot she's got set up in the tiny-ass room where she keeps her rig. She's awake, headphones slung over her head, busy fiddling with the knobs on her transceiver. She picks up on the fact that you're awake kinda quick, given that you ain't a loud sleeper _or_ a loud waker. Those habits from Bat City might be shit but they're still worth a hell of a lot out here. Waking quick, waking restless, being able to slip out of a room quiet, those're the kinds of things you learned early and held onto. Those're the kinds of things that kept you alive and still do.

You kinda can't remember the last time you slept in a bed. Even a shitty cot like this.

"Hey," says GoGo, real quiet.

You don't say shit to her. She shifts like she's trying to think of something to say. You don't give her the fucking time to.

"What the fuck," you snap. Your spine's a coil of wire, spring squeezed in place and it jolts you up and outta the cot as soon as you register that you're in it. The world pitches, goes sideways, and you nearly collide into the fucking wall. One hand thrusts out and catches it instead, keeps you upright. The ink's visible on your forearm, the claw sunk into the skin there, and you can see by the way GoGo's eyes flick to it that she ain't never seen it before.

The place feels dark. She's put something over the window so there's only a bare bulb illuminating the cramped angles and corners of the room.

"Sorry," says GoGo. The word sounds all wrong in her mouth. She winces when she says it. "Look, I didn't...how old're you, Monster? Really?"

You can barely make out the lines on her face. Her goggles're off so the guilt is clean and sharp on her features. Only been here a week and you're already cracking the hard edges of the "don't fuck with me" front she flung up whenever you tried to rob her. That's gotta be a new kinda record. You don't like sitting here and dealing with her _looking_ at you like that but you're pretty sure that if you try to walk away now you'll have to deal with your head fucking spinning again and you don't wanna risk eating shit trying to get outta this sitch. That'll make it worse, make the lines of fucking regret carved into her face even _worse_ and you got no time for that. Don't make any goddamn sense, all right? She's got no reason to feel anything about this, except you can remember her saying a week ago with a weight you couldn't place: _There aren't any kids in the Zones. Not really._

You'd agreed.

Ain't hard to put together why she's asking. She took you out drinking like that was a thing you could've handled and maybe she figured you were older than you are. That's gotta be a fucking first. Most people look at your height and assume you're some fucking kid.

You _are_ some fucking kid by most definitions. Not yours, 'cause you know better. You got no clue how old you are, but you can guess.

"Fourteen," you lie. You're pretty sure you're off by a year, maybe more, but that relaxes something in her shoulders and she sits back in her seat and fiddles with the cord of her headphones.

"You never been out drinking before, have you?"

Figured that'd be pretty obvious. You roll your shoulders in a shrug. You got your first tattoo before you was twelve. Not long after, you smoked your first cigarette. You ain't been a kid for a while now but you're also pretty damn sure that you never fucking been one.

"Fuckin' Lighter Fluid, am I right?" you laugh, 'cause it comes easy. Like it were the quality of the liquor that laid you out and not the fact that you're some thirteen year old at the very oldest who downed a whole bottle of something way the hell too strong for you. GoGo looks away with her brow furrowing up. She digs into something in the pocket of her vest and extricates a pale bottle rattling with little bits of - 

Seeing it's like getting a shot of nitro to your fucking heart. You swat at the thing and it clatters to the floor, loud. The white capsules tumble over one another and just staring at them makes you fucking sick. Wanna stamp on the bottle, _crack_ the plastic underneath the heel of your overlarge boot, crush the white pills to fucking _powder._ The sound of capsules on plastic is vomit clinging to the backs of your teeth and it's you doubled over the shiny white drain of a sink in Battery City. The sound's the glitch of static and Mousekat's too-big eyes at the backs of your lids and the smell of the starched sheets in re-education.

_"Hey - "_ GoGo stands up. "Monster, _nantekotta?"_

The tension's wired in your bones. Your hand leaps to the knife hilted in your boot and the world tips forward in a nauseating wrench of vertigo. Nearly end up on the fucking floor, kinked forward at the waist. Your reflexes carry you back up, snapping upright 'till you're leaned against the wall. Your hands're shaking worse than being off the pills, worse than when you got a chunk of wood speared into the fucking meat of your shoulder - the shoulder that still twinges with a phantom ache that don't feel so phantom on the days when you strain to lift something heavier than you are, something that happens more frequently than you'd think. 

It ain't a gun but it'll keep GoGo an arm's length away from you when you lift the blade and brandish it at her, trembling.

"Get that shit away from me," you rasp. The words are hoarse, wheezing, like the air ain't really in your lungs.

GoGo's expression clears, which makes _no_ goddamn sense considering that you're fucking _threatening_ her here.

"Right," she mutters. "You're from the city."

She bends forward, scoops up the bottle of capsules, and tucks them back into her vest without getting up.

"Painkillers're best for the headache you're feeling right about now," she says. The words are almost toneless. She ain't looking at you anymore as you stand there with your knife out and your hands shaking so bad your teeth feel like they're gonna rattle outta your head. "That's all they are. Painkillers."

Headache. She ain't wrong there. Your temples're throbbing like you been brained over the fucking skull.

"Keep that shit away from me." She don't seem surprised when you say it again. She nods.

You stagger outta the room and into the shed where GoGo keeps all her extra gear. You're breathing hard. Feels like you're gonna vomit but you swallow it back, hate the burning that wraps itself around your esophagus, but you don't fucking _care._ You ain't staining any of this beautiful fucking equipment with your sick.

Should run. Should fucking _run._ Pretty sure that if you take two steps you're gonna faceplant into the fucking floor and there's no telling what'll happen to you if you do. Maybe she'll drag you back to her cot. Force a fistful of pills down your gullet -

This ain't Battery City. Stop it. _Stop_ it. Get it the fuck together.

You dunno her. You dunno her well enough to say she wouldn't _do_ that. Fuck. Fuck!

Stay awake. You gotta stay awake.

She don't come after you.

**\--**

**the apocalypse bares its bones on the backs of birds  
that break their necks on the hull of my body.  
the wind blows my hair.**

**\--**

You read in the off-hours when you got nothing else to do and GoGo don't need you to help her with her rig. You got nowhere to go and there ain't nothing and nobody around for miles. GoGo ain't said it, but you're pretty fucking sure that you're the first person to come near her station for weeks. Maybe months. Dunno. Don't _care,_ neither. You're here 'cause you're helping GoGo set up her station in exchange for a place to sleep and a can of PowerPup to keep you going every day. The smell of the stuff turns your stomach worse than a mouthful of Lighter Fluid, worse than a hangover. PowerPup is the smell of burst-open brains on your bedroom floor and the sight of shed hair. The whine of a dog on an old bathmat and the thump of a tail against the tiled kitchen floor.

Makes you think of a lotta things. Mostly, makes you think of your dad.

You choke it down 'cause you know better than to get picky. The life you had in Bat City weren't so different from the one you're living out here. The people still hate you when they don't barely tolerate you, and more importantly, you know that when you get your hands on food, it don't matter if you're hungry or if you ain't. You eat when there's food. You _eat_ 'cause there's no knowing when you'll get another chance to. You eat and whatever you can't eat you take with you.

So when all GoGo's got is old protein squares and cans of PowerPup, that's what you eat. You don't gotta talk to her if you don't wanna. She only talks to you to ask you for a hand and keeps the chatter low, has ever since the Cemetery Window. Don't mind that, except that you never liked the texture of your thoughts as they rattled along in your head and being _alone_ don't give you much in the way of distraction so you take whatever you can get. Mostly you flip through the Graffiti Bible, that old book you took off a droid you couldn't save.

The pages are lined with illustrations, artful renditions of fire and chrome. Shadows of thousands of droids with their arms outstretched. Visions of a massive, metallic shape, only it's got a different silhouette every time you see it. Sometimes it's this huge person, a droid the size of a city tower. Sometimes it's this vast thing with crawling legs, like a giant metal spider. Sometimes there ain't a form to it at all, just a burst of hellish red and orange detonation that explodes across the pages in a sprawl of colorful ink.

Swear to god you know some of these prayers by heart. _At the end, through the fire and through brimstone, a savior will rise from the earth. He will walk through hell's fury and ring an end to the night. Sunlight will see this city once again and we will walk out into the world. We will be free. His name is Destroya. And he will turn Battery City to ashes._ Swear to god you can recite them word for word. _Let it be known that we will see destruction before we see life, just as we see it in the proliferation of pills and the poison of electricity. The City will create its own dissolution._ Swear to god that they say they've seen him and know he's coming and you dunno what the fuck you believe but it sure as shit means something that so many people believe it, right?

You run your fingers over the creased, mismatched pages, the torn backings of magazines and rumpled newspapers.

_What lies behind City lines? We will know when DESTROYA comes and we will see his child raze the City walls and free our souls. DESTROYA will breed destruction and his child will breathe us full of life._

No wonder BLi wanted this shit outta the city. This much color and creativity all in one place? Can't fucking have _that._ They don't like people talking about _gods_ and _afterlives_ and prophesied children and shit. The only protection your soul gets is from BLi, the city says; you can't afford a Soul Protection Plan, you're hung out to fucking dry.

You stare at the pages long and hard, flick through them when sleep don't come easy, which it never does. The words feel seared into your head with how often you look over them. It ain't the words themselves that stand out. It's how many different hands must've written them. This thing must've been put together over a period of months, maybe years, by dozens or hundreds of different 'bots from all walks of life in Battery City. There's too many different words and too much variation in the subtle loops of the handwriting for it not to've been some big fucking community effort. Little by little, more and more of Destroya's legacy was inked into the pages and committed to the paper and you think about the droids you patched in the Lobby and how they must've died still hoping that he'd come.

The electricity'll stop. They pray that it'll stop and you dunno why they would, 'cause it's electricity that keeps 'em alive, ain't it?

The city don't tell people how the droids work. Everything you know about them you had to figure out for yourself.

Some nights it gets bad. Some nights it gets real bad. It gets so bad that even palming the pages of the book in your hands can't keep your muscles from locking up. Can't shrug off the weight that's mantled onto your shoulders or the tension bolted into the back of your neck. No amount of curling up against the wall keeps you from feeling like the world ain't gonna collapse in on you, and the smallness of the space and the closeness of the tech stacked up around you - it'll get to you. Ain't usually a problem out in the open desert. Too many walls reminds you of too many other things. Dark spaces. Small spaces. He kept you in the closet sometimes, if you didn't do what he said -

You gotta favorite spot on the roof of the shed. Ain't so hard to climb up, even with your bad shoulder. It's a good perch next to the sloper you helped GoGo mount. You get a real shiny view of the stars. Out here in Zone Four, you can almost kinda make them out sometimes.

When the skies're cleanest and the clouds ain't breathing a fog of smoke over the dots of light way the hell up above your head, when the moon's faint and faded enough for the stars to glitter, you can breathe in the ice of the desert night and run your fingers over the worn, mismatched bindings of the old book in your lap.

"Hey," you whisper, real quiet, "Destroya." 

Silence.

"Uh." Fuck, you really doing this?

Sure. Sure, actually. Why the hell not? Wouldn't be the first time you've chatted up something so much fucking bigger than yourself. You clear your throat. Keep fucking going.

"You can come and smoke Bat City whenever, y'know. Whatever big sign you're waiting for or whatever...you don't gotta wait anymore, man."

Don't think that's enough. You could pray to the Witch at a mailbox and maybe then She'd hear you. Far as Destroya's concerned, all you got's the Bible in your hands that ain't really yours and you gotta hope that'll be enough for your words to make it to him.

"The people out there're waitin'," you tell the book with its pages full of color. "The droids, they're...out there workin' and dyin' in the city. They're waitin' for you."

Can a god hear you from here?

Does a god _care?_ You ain't a droid. Only you...look, you took this shit off a dead droid 'cause you couldn't save it and at this point it's kinda like you owe it, all right? You owe that droid this.

"Just think that they've all suffered, y'know, _enough_ by now," you tell the Graffiti Bible. Sounding awful demanding here so you adjust your tone and try, fucking _try_ for once in your life to not be an inexcusably unbearable, ungrateful _piece of shit._ "Whatever the hell you're waitin' for - fuck, I just hope it's worth it. I hope it's worth every droid it takes to get there, man. 'Cause otherwise it means they're out there in the slums workin' and breakin' down and dyin' for _nothing,_ and they get enough of that from BLi."

No answer to that. Weren't really expecting one.

You set down the book and scrub your face with your hands and don't let the pressure in your throat take you. You don't let it fucking take you. Ain't nothing you can do from here but keep doing what you been doing. You ain't a droid. Worked on a few of them for a spell is all.

Got no call to make pleas to an old desert god on some dead droid's behalf.

You catch yourself missing the taste of nicotine on your tongue.

**\--**

**oh mother,  
my nettle-stung mother, can you pretend the world isn't ending?**

**\--**

It takes another week, but GoGo gets her station running, _really_ running. She's combing the bands for news and tapping things out and flicking between antennas and you can hear her speaking under her breath as she writes shit down, committing it to memory or taking note of locations and frequencies to pay attention to or some shit. You set up an array of old monitors and TV screens, squarish and mounted in a double-row on the wall, plugged in so that she can pick up visuals on the few spotty-ass signals that allow them. Reminds you of the buzz and blitz of static that emanated from the cairns of discarded televisions that lived in nested tangles of wires on the streets of the Lobby.

The power demand for a station like this one's gonna be huge, and for that, you're gonna need a hell of a generator.

GoGo puts off scavenging for one - the tiny-ass one she's using to run the place can't handle the strain - but only for so long. You pose it to her that she's gonna need to get a sturdier generator if she wants this place running as smart as she wants and she _sighs_ when she nods and says that the two of you'll figure it out tomorrow.

She says it like it's a given. That you're coming with her. Still don't trust you around the place, does she?

Can't blame her. You wouldn't trust you around here neither.

GoGo heads back into the shed where she keeps her bike along with the rest of the old recording gear she's got lying around. Hidden among the loops of cables and antique transceivers is this old-ass trailer that she hooks up to the back of her bike. She says it'll be slow going 'cause of the extra weight and that ain't accounting for drag and weather shifts but the skies're clear and there ain't been acid storms in two weeks so the chances of you both being taken out by a flash flood're pretty low. Real shame.

You and her take a drive to some spot out in Zone Four. She gives you a scratched-up helmet that's too big for you and says she knows a place that might have a generator since it's been advertising all over the bands for days now, and she knows the guy's in Zone Four based on his latest broadcast.

The trip's a long one, 'cause a duststorm makes visibility difficult. Gets real obvious why GoGo always wears those goggles, and also why she gave you a fucking motorcycle helmet. The sand stings the bare skin of your hands and whips rashes along the exposed parts of your neck underneath the chin of it. You've had worse.

It's dusk by the time you reach the establishment, whatever the fuck it is. There's this flickering neon sign hanging unevenly in the window. You figure it's supposed to read _OPEN_ but the lights're guttering so bad that the _N_ 's all that's visible. Place looks like a repurposed convenience store or some shit. Whatever it was, it were standing long before this guy moved in. It's got this bell that chimes when you and GoGo step inside.

The interior's packed. Not with people, just - with _stuff._ The lighting in the place is way the hell too bright, almost fluorescent. Feels BL/ind bright. It illuminates the crowded room, the shelves packed close and stacked high with masks and colorful gear. Scrap metal. Gutted television sets. Looks like there's a bit of everything in here.

"I'll do the negotiating," says GoGo from ahead of you, 'cause nobody ever walks behind you. You never let them.

"Y'don't think I'm charmin' enough?" You can feel your grin tilting your head with how uneven it is.

GoGo snorts. "Yeah. 'Cause you're a real charming mothafucka." She likes to do that. Drop the "er" on the ends of her words and leave 'em hanging.

You pretend to toss your hair and she laughs. She's got a quiet laugh, like she's afraid of someone else hearing it, but her whole body convulses, crinkles forward on itself, and the noise hisses between her teeth like steam. It's gotta be the first time in your life you heard a laugh that weren't tinged with something mean-spirited and it almost crooks a real smile outta you. Almost, but you swallow that back 'cause your smiles tend to mean someone's gonna get their ass beat in the next thirty seconds and it's usually you.

You comb the walls and shelves and the clothes that dangle off hangers while GoGo wanders up to the front of the place. You can see her eyeing the boxy silhouette of a cash register and the pyramid of gasoline cans stacked up behind the counter. Ain't nobody around. You watch her pretend she ain't sizing it up and wonder how easy it'd be to rob the place. You know the look people get over that. You done it yourself often enough. But she leans back on her heels and shifts away from the register by a tiny half-step.

Could've been easy money, but whatever. Ain't your call here. She's the one looking to lose carbons on a generator, and you're pretty damn sure that shit won't come cheap.

There ain't no organization to whatever lines these shelves. You pick at an old necklace, a medallion on a chain, flip it over in your hands. Something about the way it catches the light, the rough edges of the star shape wrought into the disc of metal, feels good for you to dig your thumbnail into, but you feel GoGo's eyes flick over to you and you put it down.

Place like this has gotta have cigs. It looks to have everything fucking else. Gotta have a pack of coffin nails somewhere, don't it?

You're so busy hunting for something that might be a pack of smokes that you almost miss the sound of the guy approaching GoGo at the front.

"You Tommy Chow Mein?" she asks.

"Yes." The word's clipped and terse and you look up 'cause there ain't nothing about the tenor of it that leaps out at you but you're hyper-aware of other people in the same room as you and always have been. You see the guy face to face and there ain't no mistaking it. There weren't any mistaking it even before you fully picked up on the crisp lines of the suit he's wearing, the name _Tommy,_ the black shine of his hair.

You'd recognize Tommy anywhere 'cause he were the last face you saw in Battery City before your whole world went off the goddamn rails. You dunno how long it's been since you seen him, maybe a year, maybe longer, but you still know that fucking face that took your monster arms and ditched you and never looked back.

Gotta stuff a fist into your mouth to choke back the strain of laughter, the pressure of the urge roosting in your chest cavity. You duck behind one of the shelves at random and huddle on the spot, the sound hitching. Dunno if he's seen you yet. Sounds like he and GoGo're still talking at the front. So - probably ain't seen you yet.

Fuck. Fuck. Okay. Gotta do this right.

You're crouched on the ground trying not to lose your goddamn _shit_ and you look up and - there, right at eye-level sits a pack of smokes. You don't think twice when you snatch 'em off the shelf and thrust them deep into your pocket. No break in the voices up front. What else you got? Small tin box you flip open, full of sewing needles or some shit, but they can probably double as something you can use to stitch color into your skin so you grab that too, cram it into your pockets with the rest. A pad of paper. Fuck yeah, that's gotta be a rarity out here. It's small enough to fit into the lining of your jacket and that's where it ends up. Loop of wooden beads with symbols carved onto 'em. You can't read 'em quick enough but that don't matter. They're Tommy's so into your pockets they go.

The bastard owes you. He _owes_ you for abandoning your ass back in the Lobby. Far as you're concerned, the two of you ain't _even_ yet.

By now the voices at the front're starting to rise.

" - can't afford that, Tommy, _maji ka? No one_ can afford that."

"If you can't afford it, you'll have to look somewhere else," says Tommy, and fuck _you_ but he sounds exactly the same shooting down GoGo that he did with Pandora in the Lobby. The thing about loathing's that it's got this taste to it, pumps heat and oil into the roof of your mouth and makes your sight go spotty. You're gonna fuck this guy up. You're gonna fuck this guy _up -_

"Oh, you can't have me owe you?" You can hear the scowl in her voice. She's smothering her desperation in contempt. She dunno any other suppliers out here for what she's looking for. Where the hell else is she gonna go? "Look, there's other shit I need. Work with me here, man."

"I don't do negotiations," says Tommy. "If what you have on hand won't cover it, you can go to someone else."

You don't got too many options here.

The urge to kick the shit outta Tommy and leave him groaning on his own shop floor is like a hand around your neck. It chokes you. You're starting to laugh again. _Shut up, shut up, c'mon!_ You bite down on your hand 'till you taste the salt sting of your blood leaking in between your teeth. God, c'mon, get it together, _get it together._ You fuck this guy up and then who's gonna get GoGo her generator? _You fucking care about that?_ She been putting up with your shit for two weeks, all right? The least you can do is make it worth her goddamn while.

All you got on hand is - 

_No._

It'll help her.

It'll _help_ her.

_You outta your fucking mind?_

That book's the only thing that's kept you _breathing_ some days and you'll throw it all the fuck away for this? For _this?_

Shut up. Look, just - shut the fuck up, all right? You know what you're doing.

You ain't never known what you were doing. Not your whole life. Not your whole _fucking_ life, you liar, you fuck-up, you goddamn _animal -_

You get the fuck up and you walk down the shelves easy as anything and you dig the book outta the lining of your jacket and _thump_ it down onto the counter.

"How much'll this go for?" you ask Tommy Chow Mein, with your insufferable grin and your teeth pink from your own blood and your hair cut ragged and your nose crooked. You look him dead in the fucking eyes and you can motherfucking _tell_ \- can see by the way that he blanches and shifts back that he recognizes you and he sure as shit weren't expecting to.

"...I'm sorry?" says Tommy. His voice has gone high and papery in a way that means he's probably stalling.

"The _book,_ numbnuts." You tap the cover and you don't fucking look away from him. You ain't making this easy for the bastard. You're looking him eye to eye and it's getting to him. You can tell it's fucking getting to him. "How much?"

GoGo's looking at you. Pretty sure it ain't real clear to her how it is you can look at this asshole and manage to freeze him on the spot, but she don't interrupt.

"A - a _book_ can't possibly cover the cost of a _generator,"_ says Tommy, clearly trying to regain his composure. His expression keeps fluttering and he keeps trying to smooth it over. Ain't really working so hot for him.

"Look at the cover again and tell me that," you tell him right back. Your smirk's still wild-edged and digging into the lines of your cheeks. Your smiles don't put people at ease. They cut at them. They _claw_ at them. They make them shuffle and shift and panic and look away. It's working right the fuck now.

Tommy's frame stiffens when he finally drops his gaze and looks at it, and you can tell straight away that he knows exactly what the fuck he's looking at.

You're pretty sure that ain't the only copy of the _Graffiti Bible_ floating around the Zones and Battery City, but the fact that it shuts Tommy the fuck up means that you was right about your hunch that copies of the thing ain't all that common.

"Where did you get this?" he says strangely.

"That's between me and Destroya," you tell him all simple. GoGo goes real, real still beside you. You keep grinning at the bastard and not fucking blinking, not doing a _goddamn thing_ to make this easier on him. "Let's get NewsAGoGo her power generator. That sound shiny to you?"

You dunno if it's the shock of getting the Graffiti Bible dumped on his doorstep, the shock of seeing _you_ again, you name-dropping _Destroya,_ or the fact that you wouldn't stop standing there and _smiling_ at him 'till he relented, but you and NewsAGoGo walk away from Tommy Chow Mein's with all the supplies she asked for, including a fine-ass generator. It'll need parts and gas before it can run and it ain't brand spanking new the way it'd be if it come directly from Battery City, but it's in pretty damn good condition and you had enough c's on hand to fetch one of those gasoline cans Tommy keeps behind his register.

GoGo don't say a word to you until you're back at her station, hours later. Either Tommy hadn't picked up on the lumps on your pockets or he knew better than to call you out over them. Feels wrong to be walking around without the weight of the book pressing up against your ribcage. It were worth it. For GoGo, 'cause she let your ungrateful ass stick around in spite of how you tried to _rob_ her several times over - it's fucking worth it for her sake. Gotta be.

That night you sit up on the roof of the station and squint up at the faint, foggy glint of the stars up in the dark bowl of the sky and smoke one of your stolen cigarettes in celebration. You think about the weight of the missing Graffiti Bible and how it settles up against your soul.

It'll go up there with all the other things you lost, sure, but it don't feel as sharp as the nails that scrape up the inside of you when you think of the Demon-Sharks or a dead droid or a couple dead Zone-rats or your monster arms or the dog that weren't yours or the Lobby or your dad.

Maybe 'cause for the first time in your life, it was a thing you gave up, and not a thing that was taken from you.

**\--**

**can you pretend that you didn't bury my body by the hatchet.  
by the chicken chopping block still slick with blood.**

**\--**

"Thought you followed Destroya," says GoGo, outta fucking nowhere.

She's pouring gas from the can into her new generator and you're holding it steady while she loads it up. She looks at the loop of worn wooden beads around your wrist, the ones you took from Tommy's shelves without thinking about what the fuck they were. You still dunno what the fuck they are.

Not real sure what she means by that. You shrug.

"Why, do _you?"_ you say. "Spooked Tommy real good, didn't it?"

Think maybe she'll throw back her head and laugh at that, like you seen her do back at Tommy's, but she don't. Her forehead puckers up in a tiny frown.

"I didn't know you had a Graffiti Bible," she says. "I didn't think physical copies _existed._ Mostly it's songs and prayers that droids pass along to each other."

You dunno how much she knows about Destroya or the Graffiti Bible or any of it. Maybe this is all common knowledge out in the desert. Who fucking knows. Only people who felt all that inclined to fill you in on the gods and stories of the Zones were people who didn't believe in that shit.

GoGo's quiet after that. Maybe waiting for you to say something. What the fuck're you supposed to say?

"Got lucky," you say. Watching a droid get shot through the eye and then losing a crew for doing it is kinda the exact opposite of luck. But who the hell's fucking counting? "Why? You follow 'em?"

"Not really a question of if I follow them," says GoGo. "Some people say Destroya isn't real, but people say that about everything. Say that about the Witch too. Doesn't make Her less real."

Figured that'd be the case. Not a given out here, but...it don't surprise you that she believes in them. Either of them. She's still looking at the beads around your wrist. You pick at them without looking at them. You seen what each of them say. They say stuff like _thirteen_ and _black cat_ but you dunno the significance of them, only what they mean 'cause you remember how to read Japanese from the classes you only sometimes attended in Bat City. You'd have to guess they got something to do with the Phoenix Witch, but other than that you got no clue.

"Bad luck beads," says GoGo, nodding at them. "People say they came from the Witch. Oldest stories call her the god of fate and fortune and death. She's in charge of when you die and what comes after you do."

She says it like it's something everybody knows. What, she dunno you was a Bat Rat not that fucking long ago?

"Of _when_ you die?"

"Sure." GoGo shrugs a bit. "I mean, it still happens sometimes." 

"What happens?" Death? Yeah. No fucking shit.

"People getting back up again after they been ghosted."

That ain't what catches you off guard. BL/ind can drac people once they're dead as long as their bodies ain't too fucked up. You heard talk of that in the Lobby sometimes. But if the Witch does it - hell, that don't sound like the same thing.

"She brings 'em back? Brings back their souls?"

"That's what they say," says GoGo. "Lotta people like to say they been Witch-touched, but I dunno. I'd guess maybe one in a million of them actually is."

_Witch-touched._

You can't picture it, mostly 'cause you've bumped up against death one too many times to imagine there being an after, or a thing that drags you back from that. Once you're dracked, you ain't _you_ anymore. You're a puppet, an empty-headed BL/ind grunt. What's it like to get dusted and have something yank you back to your beaten-down skinsuit anyway?

You stare at her. "You seen it happen?"

She shakes her head. "Nah. But crash queens'll still talk. I guess that's why people still pray to Her. Who else is gonna give a damn about us out here?"

You run the words over in your head for a minute. BLi promises to shelter your souls, to save them after death. Buy a Soul Protection Plan today. Find salvation in consuming whatever crap they put in front of you. The people whose souls don't belong to the Better Living behemoth - well, what happens to _them,_ huh? Never given it much thought. All your life you been a little too preoccupied on making it from one day to the next to worry about what particular circle of hell you'd get stuck in once your luck runs out.

Bad luck stalks you like a shadow. Might be you got on the wrong side of the Witch. Might explain why the fuck you _been_ a beacon for shit luck and bad omens all your damn life.

"So, uh - the beads _make_ bad luck, or get rid of it?" you say, eyeing your beads up. You kinda don't think you need any more bad luck in your life, if it's all the fucking same.

"They keep the bad luck where you can see it." GoGo watches the gas stream from can to generator. Ain't looking at you or your beads anymore. "If you always know where it is, it can't get you."

Don't feel like the course of your life's changed all that much since you picked up these beads from Tommy's counter. You stole 'em. That make it more or less likely for that luck to follow you?

"Where the fuck'd they come from, then?" Did they spring outta the desert, fully-formed? Did they materialize, show themselves to some unlucky bastard who had to take it all down, script it in a book and bind it in baling wire? Some wavehead go on a sun-trip and start telling tall tales and got lucky enough for the whole desert to _believe_ 'em?

"What? The beads?"

"The Witch. Destroya. Them."

GoGo's quiet for a minute.

"War," she says. She finishes filling up the generator and screws on the cap. The scent of gasoline works its way up your nostrils until it feels like its fingers are plying apart the folds of your brain. Makes your vision go spotty for a second. The smell's a relief like burned rubber and you dunno why that is but you breathe in deep. "They came from war, along with the rest."

You don't ask how she knows that. Don't ask what she means by _the rest._ She don't look that old, but you ain't the best judge of that. Maybe she fought in them, the Analog Wars. Maybe she knows people who did. You dunno. You know better than to ask.

GoGo heads back inside and you get busy with your ink and needles. The shit you stole from Pressure Point and the shit you nabbed from Tommy means you can do the one thing that you ain't never got the chance to do, and that's do your own ink. You thought real hard about it, about what you wanted to lay onto yourself next. You ain't never done it but you seen enough people do it and you been practicing on the pad of paper you nicked from Tommy's. You think you got it down. You think you can make it happen.

You don't got your copy of the Graffiti Bible on hand anymore but you get something to remember it. You get something to remember _Destroya_ and all that name represents, 'cause you prayed to them more than once and whether it was providence or the Witch or fate or pure dumb luck, you feel like you kinda owe it to him to remember that. You ink it careful onto the back of your left hand, 'cause your right's the steadier of the two. 

_BOOM!_ says the word on the back of your hand, a fireburst explosion unfurled out around the big, blocky letters. It's simple and it'd really fucking _pop_ if you could get some actual color in there someday, but for now it'll do. It'll itch and scab like a motherfucker. Don't matter. It'll do.

GoGo notices.

"Didn't know you were one for DIY," she says offhand, when you breeze back into the station. She ain't broadcasting. You can tell 'cause she's only been tuning into signals so far, not sending them out. You wiggle your fingers at her and ignore the rash-like burn on the back of your hand and grin.

_"Boom,"_ you answer. You keep at it quick to take the heat off you: "so what's hoppin' in the Zones today?"

"Nothing good," says GoGo, turning back to her transceiver. You can read the grim set of her features in her tone. "AM scans're picking up _something_ happening in the inner Zones, but hell if I can say what. Lots of chatter about smoke or bombs or something. I don't think anyone's figured it out."

She slumps back in her seat, momentarily defeated. You can read the urge to get up and _go_ outlined in the stiffness of her back. The sunlight slanting in through the window touches the skin of her arms, browned by the sun and a life spent in the Zones, turns them bright gold. There's a weal of white keloid wound around the curve of her bicep. Powder-pale splotches of scar tissue irregularly dot the parts of her you can see. The scars she wears from living out here her whole life don't look all that different from the ones dug into you from growing up in the Lobby of Battery City. Funny how they take up the same amount of skin.

"I need to get out there," mutters GoGo. She's picking at the strap of her goggles. It's a nervous tic you seen on her before but you don't think she knows she does it. "We're talking Zone One. That's _far._ If I could get eyes out there..."

You shrug, lean up against the wall. Almost fold your arms but don't 'cause that'll probably fuck up the ink on the back of your hand so instead you shove your clean one into your pocket.

"So get someone else to do it."

"Yeah, but who'd - " GoGo stops, sits up. "Monster, you're a fuckin' genius."

She don't notice when you stare at her. You recover quick.

"'Course I am."

"It's perfect," says GoGo, not listening, twisting back to her transceiver. "We get eyes out in the Zones and they report back to us."

She seems pretty into whatever the hell she's doing. Working on broadcasting, maybe. Recruitment? You dunno. No idea how the fuck she plans to incentivize anybody to give her whatever the hell she wants, but she's a DJ. Or a growing DJ. She'll work it out, yeah? Something like that.

Look, it ain't your business. Any day now she's gonna realize that she don't need to keep you here anymore and you're already thinking about what you're gonna do once that happens. You ain't never been out into the furthest parts of the desert. Could go to Zone Six. Never been to Zone Six. Could hitch a ride out there, maybe. Or walk. Could always walk. Could always dry out walking, _ha._

"Nobody'll talk to me," she says, few days later, the words sharp with frustration. "I got nothing they _want."_

"Yeah, you do," you say without thinking.

GoGo looks at you sharply with the demand that you explain pretty fucking evident from the angle of her head alone. 

"You're a DJ, yeah?" You fling out a hand at her fancy equipment, the rig you helped her set up. "So DJ. People'll do anything if you give 'em the right soundtrack." The whole reason you ran into NewsAGoGo in the first damn place was 'cause you wanted to hear that fucking Mad Gear record. Which you still ain't _heard,_ by the way.

Give 'em the right soundtrack. Even a dumbass ex-city kid like you knows that. There ain't a whole lotta DJs out in the Zones but the ones that _are_ out here, they get a lotta clout, a lotta attention from the rats than run in the desert with them. That, and a nice shiny target on their backs from BLi. They gotta have a mean hand at signal scrambling and making themselves hard to track. But people listen to them, if they tell 'em what they wanna hear.

Don't take long for GoGo to start figuring how to get some of what she wants after that. She's doing broadcasts every day, more often than she's taking actual calls, but you don't stay in the same room as her while she does 'em. You'll make noise and throw her off and she sounds weird when she's chatting up the Zones, full of pep and vigor and a weird cadence to her words that don't sound like her. You got better shit to do anyway. You're busy drawing patterns on your pads of paper, thinking about how much it might take to head back to Pressure Point and see if they'd be willing to give you another tattoo. Assuming they're not fucking _pissed_ that you stole some of their ink. Assuming they got any idea that it were _you_ who stole it.

You keep waiting for GoGo to wise up to the fact that you've overstayed your goddamn welcome. She chatters to you between the points when she's not running broadcasts and when she's not hunting airwaves for news from the rest of the Zones, does it offhand like she ain't thinking about it. Tommy Chow Mein's making a real name for himself, she tells you, you know that, freak? Zone-rats from all over're starting to say that he can get you _anything_ for the right price, even pirated BL/ind shit. He's got setups and storefronts all over the Zones. Nobody knows how the fuck he manages it. Good for him, right? _Great_ for him. Gotta wonder how many _other_ poor bastards he's screwed over for it. Half the time GoGo's issuing broadcasts in Japanese and you can only catch one word in ten 'cause of the rapid clip she's going at. Speaks faster than anybody in the Zones.

A week later and you're still waiting for GoGo to tell you to fuck off and find some other motherfucker to mooch off of. It ain't real clear to you why she ain't doing that yet.

"So the fuck's a 'luneshine,' anyway? Thought everybody out here was called _sunshine,"_ you ask her, peering at the notes she's made. Figure the longer you bother her the less likely she'll be to maintain this charade that she still wants you around. GoGo sighs, hooks a finger around the band of her headphones and tugs them back slightly so the cushions slide off one ear.

"Someone who likes to be called 'they'," says GoGo. _"Sunshine_ 's supposed to mean just anybody. Picked that one up from the outer Zones. Not sure where it started, but they've got all these different words for it."

Luneshine. Like Flashburn, you guess. Like Jolt Fuel. Not like you, probably. Maybe?

You think about it.

Maybe a little like you.

"They've all got different words for people in the outer Zones," says GoGo. She's not looking at you, flipping through her notes instead. "'Earthshine' if you're a 'she' and 'starshine' if you're a 'he.' And I keep hearing another one, 'ringshine.' Haven't figured what that one means yet. My guess is whoever ain't one of the other three."

It never occurred to you to be anything other than what you are, except that ain't really true, is it? Not really. 'Cause you grew your hair out long in Battery City, long enough to get your dad yelling at you and for the docs to reprimand you for it in re-education. It were too long, like a _goddamn girl_ \- you remember that bit. You remember hacking it short a couple times, not 'cause your dad demanded it, but because it made you an easy target. It were too easy for him to work his fingers into your long, brownish locks and yank you upright and drag you, _wrench_ you toward the closet - 

Point is, you're thinking the words over, feeling out how you'd use them to address yourself. You always been a 'he.' Your whole life, you never been anything else. You think about someone calling you something else - calling you _they_ like Jolt Fuel or _she_ like GoGo.

It don't feel all that wrong. Also got no clue how to address _that_ with GoGo so you keep your damn mouth shut 'cause she's already moving on.

"Those canisters people were talking about in the inner Zones?" Not real sure why she's telling _you_ this shit, except you guess she needs someone to bounce her ideas off of so, y'know, sure. Whatever. You make a great wall to talk at for a minute. GoGo spins her chair so she's facing you and her expression's grim. "Don't think they're bombs. They're something worse. Some kinda gas that BL/ind's tossing out into the Zones and pumping out from the Stacks in Bat City. People who breathe in too much of it go down quick and they _don't_ go down pretty."

"Oh," you say, dragging the word out slow, 'cause she seems to be waiting for a response to that one. Dunno why. When the fuck've you ever had a good response to _anything?_ People break your nose and you laugh at them. That's, to you, what counts as a decent fucking conversation. "Uh, better figure out some filters."

"Yeah," says GoGo. "People out there're already trying to reverse engineer respirators, stuff like that for when BL/ind tries to hit 'em again."

Yeah, still no idea why she's telling _you_ this. What the fuck she expect you to do about it?

Okay, actually, putting together a gas mask from shit lying around in the Zones - can't be that much harder than piecing together anything else you done, right? There ain't much in the way of oxygen tanks or air filters or whatever the hell lying around in the shed, so hell if you know how you're gonna manage something like that.

Sounds like it's mostly a problem for the Zones closest to the city. You're way the hell out in Zone Four. Not gonna be a problem for a while, probably. Maybe. Not gonna put any stock in that.

Look. Don't gotta worry about that 'till GoGo gets sick of your stupid ass. Someday soon, she'll shake herself loose of you. Sooner she does that, sooner you can figure out what the hell you're gonna do next.

**\--**

**could've been a butcher with those hands  
raw meat under the nails.**

**\--**

A week later, nothing's changed. You fuck around with spare garbage she keeps in the shed and you listen to her do her tune-ins and tune-outs and tune-ups and you stay the fuck outta her way. Listen to her go _"pop!"_ and _"urgent!"_ and going off in spiky bursts of noise. Maybe you ought'a start butting in more often. Problem with that is that nine times outta ten, GoGo's more annoyed with whatever's on the freqs than she is with _you._

"Goddamnit," she mutters, holding the muff of her headphones to one ear with her other hand on the dial. "Hey - hey, freak, c'mere."

You flip her off and wait for her to comment on it, but she ain't looking. How the fuck're you supposed to get yourself kicked out if she won't even goddamn look at you, huh?

"C' _mere,_ seriously."

Jesus. Fine. You sigh when you get close, all loud, but GoGo don't pay you any mind. She hands the 'phones to you.

"Give it a listen and tell me if you hear anything."

You kinda wanna tell her to shove it up her ass, but there's static buzzing on the airwaves and all right, so fuckin' shoot you - you're curious. Maybe it's tunes. Maybe it's tunes you ain't heard yet. Statistically fucking likely, right?

You hook on the headphones and listen. Mostly it's static. Nothing special. Most of the freqs in the Zones're static and dead air and shit. The harder you listen, the more it starts to sound like somebody's saying something in the background. It's tough to make out, fuzzed up and torn, but the words work their way through the white noise in dim, erratic bursts:

_"- hard to keep fighting - "_ The words cut out. _" - face an enemy that's bigger than any - "_ More static. _" - please. We need your help. We can usurp the BL/ind and - "_ And what? The distorted roar gets louder and louder, 'till you can only barely make out the final words: _"Thank you."_

Then the whole thing cascades into an earsplitting tone that makes you curse and fling the headphones away from you. They land on the desk with a clatter.

"Fuck!"

"Can't get it to play anything else," says GoGo, scowling at the transceiver. "Just ghost transmissions. Can't even dial up the Doc to ask him if he can pick up anything else. We got no ears out here."

"The hell y'mean, ghost transmissions?" You rub at your ears furiously. Swear you can feel them vibrating, still ringing from the high-pitched buzz that sliced its way into your brain.

"Y'know, ghost - " She blinks when she looks back at you. "...guess you wouldn't know. Just - old sounds on the airwaves. Old shit, broadcasts from people who've been dusted."

"What, like..." You're straining to find a word for what that answer roots in you, the shiver that races up your back. The same kind you get from thinking about the Witch's beads, or Destroya's Bible. "You mean like, people replayin' their old sounds?"

"I guess. People've tried to track where they come from but they're, y'know, _ghost_ transmissions for a reason. Like echoes more'n anything. Mostly they're just - " She whacks the side of the transceiver lightly and snatches up her headphones to press them up against one ear again. _" - real_ goddamn annoying 'cause they clutter up all the freqs and make it goddamn impossible to hear _anything."_

How long's someone gotta stay out here for shit like that to be commonplace, _annoying?_ For the voices of old ghosts singing back on dead signals to be so normal that it's just a goddamn frustration? How long's GoGo been in the Zones? You dunno how old she is. You know better than to ask. People don't ask questions like that, not out here.

She don't pay any more attention to you after that. Does she not notice that you're taking up space in this tiny-ass station? Does she not _care?_

What's it gonna take for her to sling you out into the fucking dust?

**\--**

**angels bow, bones snap,  
i take their eyes and wings and use them in place of twigs.**

**\--**

A month later, you think you're losing your goddamn mind.

You're losing it 'cause GoGo ain't told you to split yet. You're counting the weeks - six you think, maybe seven - since you've started staying with her at her request, which was basically a demand and also came down to what was fucking _convenient_ for the both of you. The thought of _six or seven weeks_ is digging into your brain matter 'cause it's the longest you've ever been in any one place in you dunno how long. You've always been moving. Feels like ever since you were spat out into this shit white-paved world you been moving. Your feet beating the pavement, moving from one hiding place to the next. Keeping yourself alive by dodging dracs, moving to the Lobby whenever you could. Running from the house with the threat of a broken jaw at your back. You hit the desert and that didn't fucking change. You kept moving. You kept yourself alive by moving from one crew to another, from one shelter to the next, never stopping, never _staying_ with anyone for longer than you had to. You survived by being in a constant state of motion and now that you been stopped dead you can't shake the dread that's locked itself in the shell of your ribs, sliding ice into your gullet.

Feels like it's being stationary that's killing you, which makes no goddamn sense since you've proved pretty tough to kill so far. Figures that inertia'd be the thing do you in.

GoGo don't take you to Chow Mein's again and it ain't hard to figure out why. You're pretty sure she worked out that you stole those wooden beads off Chow Mein's shelves, even if she never says it. She still needs to make runs to Chow Mein's intermittently, occasionally trading him the odd piece of gear in exchange for food or clean water or plain old carbons. You got nothing else to do but try and fix the shit she's got lying around in her shed. Sometimes you make something work well enough for GoGo to feel like she can sell it off to Chow Mein for a decent price.

You don't wanna think about how you're more or less doing the exact same shit that you did for a living in the Lobby. Guess some shit never changes, huh? No matter how much you might want it to.

The first time GoGo heads out solo she tells you to watch the station for her and take notes of anything that sounds interesting. She's out the door before she catches your startled blink, your _stare._ She up and ditches you and it's like she don't expect you to screw this up. Don't make any goddamned sense because you weren't even supposed to _be_ here for that long and here she is trusting you to treat her station right and not bolt at the first chance you get. The station with the rig it took days to get right and weeks to perfect, that she didn't wanna leave you alone with. There's no fucking warning for it. A second later there's the sound of her bike spinning to life and she's out.

Why the fuck don't you run? 'Cause there ain't no place to go for miles is why. You're still there when she comes back and - look, you keep waiting for her to tell you to fuck off but _she hasn't_ and she keeps _not doing that_. What the fuck's she playing at? What's her _goal_ here?

That ain't the end of it. It keeps happening. Every time she's gotta duck out, she leaves you to keep the station going. She asks you to keep an ear on the airwaves and write down anything that sounds important. You're the one who tells her that people in the inner Zones're scrapping together filters to handle the poisonous green smoke that BLi's pouring into the desert, shit they call _limeade_ 'cause of the color of it. She's the one who brings back a pair of rebreathers from Tommy's and gives one to you with no explanation and you're pretty sure the surprise has _gotta_ show on your face but she don't say shit about it.

It don't stop there. She has you set up dead drops for some of the people she's started working with - people she calls _agents_ or, on occasion, when you hear her yelling through the walls of her station, _slingas._ Never met 'em personally. Not sure you care to. Pretty sure GoGo ain't seen a single one of 'em face to face either, but that don't seem to matter. You catch her chatting to Dr. Death more than once on some kinda direct transmission line. You don't stick around to listen to much of what they say, but you recognize his voice. You heard it on the airwaves often enough to know it in seconds. Dr. Death forwards her tunes to play on her station. She barters for crash queen loyalty by offering up the latest EPs. She's the first person to introduce _Battery Powered Exploding Sheep_ to the Zones and they turn out to have some big hits, and who knew? Guess you weren't fucking wrong. Give people the right soundtrack, and they'll do anything.

Guess that's how she cultivates her agents, or her slingas, or whatever the fuck you wanna call 'em. Ain't your business. You tinker in the shed and build shit fit to sell off to Tommy and she runs her station and that's the fucking arrangement. She brings back scanners that you plug into her monitors and hook up to her set-up. You fix up a better transceiver than the shitty tiny one she's been using, and then you fix up a real _motherfucker_ of a mixing console with a shitton of switches and knobs and dials in a dozen different colors. You fix up a mic stand that actually goddamn works and GoGo trades some c's for a better windscreen. And just like that, GoGo's stretching her fingers further and further into the Zones. She knows about what's happening outside her station without ever having to leave her seat.

That's the fucking arrangement. Never put it into words but neither of you ever had to. All you know is that GoGo's agents're the people on the "front lines," as she calls them. They're in the inner Zones, the ones right the fuck up against the city walls. They're the ones doing the fighting and dying and the choking on limeade gas. You start to recognize the names when they come up on the airwaves or when GoGo sends out calls.

The Demon-Sharks weren't keen on fighting wars. You're pretty sure this fight - this controlled activity aligned against BL/ind, geared toward harvesting intel and gauging weak points - falls real damn far from their lane. Assuming any of them're still alive.

You never go too far from the station. Not a lotta places you can reach on foot from here, save for the dead drops you and GoGo rig in place, certain landmarks that her agents can zero in on. You're never shooting out broadcasts yourself. That ain't your speed. GoGo's got a voice for radio the same way Dr. Death does. She can make the words roll off easy, couch bad news in the good, report on the news from the Zones and spread the word that crash kids've gotta start finding ways to filter out the bad air, _pop!_ The Zones're getting awful full of bad air. BL/ind ain't happy with the number of rats living out in the Zones, so they must be trying to smoke everybody out.

Maybe _rats_ ain't the best name for all of you. More like _cockroaches_ that BLi can't seem to squash. They drop bombs on the desert, and it conjures more DJs outta the ashes. They send out dracs, and crews gear up for the sole purpose of ghosting them. They start shooting cans of gas into the air, and burners start jerry-rigging filter systems, rebreathers, respirators.

Almost feels like this is something you can do - like you can actually be _good_ at something that ain't fucking shit up for once in your life. Then GoGo makes a run to Tommy's and while she's out, one of the private freqs, the channels that her agents use to contact her one-on-one, clicks on to the sound of static and screaming.

_" - they were waiting for us! Repeat, they knew we were coming!"_

Ice slips up down the back of your throat, grips tight. You're rooted to the spot, sat in GoGo's stupid fucking broken chair with no fucking idea how to respond.

_"They had our signal! Oh god - they have a scarecrow."_ The high, pitch-bright chirp of laser fire. Someone screams. _"Jesus fuck, they have a scarecrow! It's Korse. It's Korse, fuck! Repeat, they knew we were coming! GoGo - GoGo, RESPOND!"_

You don't. You don't fucking respond. You rip those headphones off and sink into the corner of the room and laugh and laugh until the cries go silent and the channel goes dead.

"Freak. Hey. Freak. C'mon." You tune back in to the sight of GoGo crouched across from you, goggles pushed up and hair in disarray. The static from her headphones is still buzzing behind her. You dunno what kinda time's passed since you got that broadcast. You look at her and your eyes start to slide away pretty much immediately.

GoGo grips your shoulder. It's a credit to the numbness in your bones that you don't immediately shove her back for that.

"C'mon, freak. Hey. _Monster._ Talk to me." A note enters her voice. Dunno what the fuck about it stands out to you except you ain't sure you ever heard it in her tone before and she slaps you real light on the side of your face and it wakes you. It wakes you.

"I think." The words drop dully out your mouth and you swallow. "I think some of your agents is dead."

So that's what being a DJ is. Ain't all loud noises and cheers and hitting back against BLi. Sometimes it's reporting obituaries to the airwaves. Then it's working out how to put together a signal scrambler so that BL/ind can't track GoGo's freqs and tap into what she's telling her agents.

It's a wake up call. How big her station's getting. You hadn't realized it, that she was making a real name for herself in the Zones. But now that BL/ind's paying attention, so's everybody else. More and more calls're coming in but you've quit fielding them. Pretty obvious you can't be trusted to field them.

When GoGo says she's heading out to meet a supplier who can get her what she needs to set up an encoder, willing to trade it in exchange for some airtime, you tell her you're going with her.

"What?" says GoGo, pulling the word out all sly like she ain't been quiet in the week following the death of two of her agents. "You scared I'm gonna get ghosted out there?"

_"Yeah_ I am," you fire it back, irreverent. "If you die then where the fuck'm I supposed to sleep, huh?" Kinda don't mean to call attention to that 'cause she looks at you and you can't read her look but you don't give her time to answer. "So we fuckin' doing this or not?"

The supplier in question is, for once, _not_ Tommy Chow Mein, and agrees to meet GoGo under the crumpled remains of some kinda radio tower in Zone Four. Whatever the thing used to be, it's fucking _big,_ all metal support beams and bars and when it stood upright it must've gone straight up into the fucking sky. Now it's on its side, wrecked all to hell. Probably ravaged by bombs or some shit. Real shame. Can only imagine the kinda signals you'd get outta that thing if it were still working. These days you gotta piggyback off of BL/ind satellite signals if you wanna get any _real_ far-reaching waves, and that's a hell of a risk to take in and of itself. BL/ind don't like anybody riding shotgun on their frequencies.

"Who's your contact?" you ask GoGo while you wait. Neither of you cut real intimidating figures. Both barely five feet, GoGo in her haphazard and multicolored fashion and you wearing about six things that're all too big for you. GoGo don't get much time to answer. There's a rumble of a motor drawing near and the tumbleweed that climbs off their cycle has got their face wrapped up in cloth and their eyes hidden behind a set of dark goggles like GoGo's so you can't see shit about who the fuck they're supposed to be.

"You're NewsAGoGo?" 

"That's right," says GoGo. "You said you had a scrambler for me?"

You catch the slide of the burner tugging something outta their pocket. You grab GoGo by the arm. Your first instinct is that the bastard has a gun but that ain't it. It's something that they flip open, something with a depressible button, and fuck, _now_ you know what it is. You don't have to know the name of it to know what it's about to do.

You _yank_ GoGo hard, trying to steer her away from the blast a second before it goes off. The implosion of dust and smoke stains your vision gray and brown. You hit the sand rolling. Your ears throb with the aftershocks. You're flipping over, coughing rough before you can track what the hell happened and why you ended up facedown in the dirt. Your hearing returns in time for you to catch the sputter of an engine. Tumbleweed roaring their bike back to life, brining out without another word. You spit into the sand and try to get up but your arms're all shaky. Feels like every nerve and bone in your body's vibrating from the impact that threw you off your feet, but you don't think you're hurt too bad. You don't think...huh. Don't _feel_ like you're hurt. No shock of pain, no sudden redness streaming outta you. You know what pulverized ribs and a clip to the skull feels like and this ain't it. Takes a minute for you to register the hurt whenever shit like this happens but there's nothing, no searing on any part of your body that means you didn't clear the blast radius quick enough. You pick fragments of shrapnel from your hair, find a couple shards of debris driven into your skin at the back of your neck and the crown of your head, but they're shallow and they only sting a bit when you yank 'em out. Bit of blood runs out down your face, slips into your mouth. Looks worse than it is. Shallow cuts. Shrapnel scars. You can handle that.

Guess it takes more than some bomb blast to lay you out. Your bony shoulders jerk with the effort to keep yourself from laughing - but _fuck,_ you can't fight the mirth that knots up in your guts. Never could fight a thing like that.

Your skeleton grin don't last long once you see GoGo. She's on her side but she ain't moving. You roll her over quick before you can track whether or not that'd be a good idea and her eyes're shut, her goggles askew.

Fuck. No, god, _fuck._

"GoGo." Okay, okay, you gotta...gotta check for a pulse. That's the first bit. You dunno the best place to do it. Pretty sure it's the neck? Yeah. Wrist or neck. You're shaking too bad to pick up anything from either one of those places. She's...she's fucking breathing, right? You can't hear anything but the dull roar of your blood in your ears and the high tone of the world coming back into alignment. The dust's still settling. Can't listen for a heartbeat. 

You shake her a little, hands to her shoulders. 

_"GoGo."_

No, fuck, jesus, why the fuck're you shaking her? The sick giggle worms up the back of your throat, froths out like a gout of hot oil. _Stop it. Shut up._ What the hell're you doing? She could be hurt and you're sitting here _shaking_ her? Cut it out. Jesus Christ, fucking _cut it out,_ fucking son of a bitch. What the fuck is wrong with you? What the fuck do you do here, huh?

Okay, okay. No. You can feel it on the backs of your fingers when you hold them up to her mouth. She's breathing. Okay. You done that. She's breathing. Should - should check for injuries. Yeah. Think she's hurt. You dunno how bad. Gotta see how bad. Her eyes're shut, she's breathing, so she's not _conscious_ but she's alive and that's something. God, you dunno what the fuck you're doing. What the fuck're you supposed to do now? You run hands along the edges of her arms, her shoulders, her legs, checking her clothes for blood, but she's clean. It ain't 'till you reach her temple that your hand comes away sticky with red and oh god, oh fuck, it's her head. She's bleeding at her _head_ and you gotta - you gotta get her outta here. Get her outta here. Get her somewhere safe. Back to the station? No one knows where the fuck it is. That's gotta be safe. Safest place for this, yeah? Don't have any medical shit there, but - fuck. You came out here to get _scramblers_ only to get hit by some fuck who figured that she was better off dead. Should've shot the bastard, should've torn their motherfucking _heart_ out - _focus!_ Focus, god! Can't do this now. Not now. C'mon.

Get it the fuck together. Monster. Freak. _Bitch._ C'mon.

You ain't never had to carry somebody before. It's slow going but GoGo's roughly your size and weighs about the same so adrenaline alone powers you into getting her over the seat of her bike. You ain't never had to drive a motorbike before either. Guess there's a lotta things you're learning to do today. First time for everything.

The drive back to the station's gonna be a long one - you're in Zone Four so the closest place that might have help is - 

Goddamnit. Goddamnit, fuck.

You grit your fucking teeth. Wanna kick the motorbike over, wanna rip out your hair, wanna rage, wanna _scream_ at the sky for the _shit_ that's fallen into your fucking lap to allow this to happen but the longer it takes you to sit here and think about how you're gonna help the less you're actually _helping._ GoGo's got a head wound and it looks bad. No fucking question of what you gotta do next.

You twist the key in the ignition and the bike sputters to life.

You're gonna start learning to drive a motorbike. You're gonna start learning to drive a motorbike while keeping the dead weight of somebody else on the seat with you. You're gonna learn fast.

Don't got much choice.

**\--**

**cut them in half under the axe.  
i bite down on the sweet spot of their shoulders where the joint holds god.**

**\--**

You knew Tommy Chow Mein was in Zone Four 'cause that's what's been on the airwaves. You don't give him time to say a goddamn thing when you shoulder into the place. There's a couple other rats in the building perusing the shelves but they take one look at you, dusty and stained with someone else's blood and your own, and they duck out real quick. Guess you can cut a real intimidating figure if you wanna. Or people don't think you're someone worth sticking around for. Either one'll do at this point.

Tommy goes pale when he sees you. Right away he steps out from behind the counter. He's shorter than you thought he'd be. Maybe 'cause you met him when you was younger so he seemed bigger to you then. He holds up his hands, opens his mouth - "now, hold on. I'm not _selling_ to you - "

"GoGo's hurt," you blurt to him, right to his fucking face. He looks at you with a faint frown between his brows which does nothing but jab barbed wire down the back of your throat and make you wanna wring his _fucking neck._ Wanna blow his brains out. Wanna paint the walls _red_ \- god, _shut up._ Focus. _Focus._

"What?" says Tommy.

"NewsAGoGo," you grind out between clenched teeth. "She's _hurt._ Can y'help her?"

"What?" says Tommy, sounding baffled. "I'm not a doctor, I - "

"D'you _have first aid, motherfucker?"_

_"Yes,_ obviously, but unless you're paying - "

You crack him across the face with the butt of your gun.

Tommy can't take a hit. He staggers. It takes him off guard. Got a glass jaw, or maybe he just didn't see it coming. You don't fucking care. You swing your gun up, fix it on him with unerring precision. For once in your life, your hand don't shake.

"GoGo's outside," you tell him. The dust and smoke in your mouth's turned the words into a rasp. "She's outside right now 'n she's hurt bad. You're gonna help her."

Tommy straightens up slowly, rubbing at his jaw. Looks like you hit him hard enough to bruise the skin. Not enough to bleed. Can't have everything.

"You're not welcome here," says Tommy, coldly. "Paying customer or not."

"Do I look," you say soft, and you step forward and Tommy steps back, "like I give a damn?"

You're a glinting wolf-smile with bared teeth. Atomic heart, gonna go _boom._ Tommy's trying to put on a brave face but he's trembling. You're close enough to see it. You don't got shit to pay him with out here 'cause GoGo were gonna barter _airtime_ to the fuck who was gonna sell her that encoder so you got no c's on you and maybe this was something you should've _planned for_ but what kinda freak would you be if you went into anything with a lick of goddamn sense? This was the only place you could think of that might have a chance of helping GoGo out and it were the closest, so you're fucking here now, aren't you? 

"I'm not a doctor," says Tommy quietly.

"Then get me shit that _is,"_ you snarl at him.

"What?"

Did that make any damn sense? Any damn sense at all? The words're getting all scrambled to hell in your head. You can feel the ridges of your smile. White and toothy and curved and so _fucking_ familiar.

Fuck it. Fuck this. Fuck _him._

"First aid," you snap. "Anything - whatever the _fuck_ can help somebody who's _bleeding outta their goddamn skull."_

"I don't do favors for free!" says Tommy, his eyes flaring with indignation.

"This ain't a favor, Tommy." Don't recognize your tone when it snakes outta you. It's low, iced over. Flinted in a way that sounds more like your dad than anything else that's ever come outta your mouth. "You're gonna do this 'cause you owe me."

It's getting under his skin. You can _see_ it. Tommy's quaking like a tumbleweed and trying not to look at you but you can see his throat bobbing when he swallows hard.

"I don't - "

Oh my _god_ you don't fucking care. You don't fucking care what this asshole has to say. GoGo is outside and she could be bleeding out and every second you're stuck here is another second you ain't doing something about that and you _don't fucking care_ about anything but making sure that you don't _kill_ another person with your fucking incompetence and your inability to do _basic shit_ without _fucking it up_ so immeasurably and irreversibly and _utterly_ and this is kinda your _goddamn priority_. GoGo is bleeding and you dunno what the fuck's wrong with her aside from the fact that she's taken a hit to the head and that can't be a fucking good thing so your ability to give a fuck about _anything_ outside of that has shrunken to something so unfathomably fucking tiny that you can't fucking map it.

So Tommy can _get fucked._

"You _fucking_ owe me, Tommy." You ain't shouting but the words grate their way out louder than any scream you've ever pitched to the sky. "You left me for dead in Bat City so you're gonna do this 'cause you _owe me_. I should'a ghosted your ass when I saw you out here, but I didn't, so you _fuckin' owe me."_

It kinda strikes you then that he's got no fucking clue what you can do when you're like this. Hell, _you_ got no fucking clue what you can do when you're like this. This is a fucking first.

"I don't - " Tommy's stammering.

All right. All right.

You're gonna do _him_ a favor.

You're gonna make it easy for him.

"How 'bout this?" You flick the muzzle of your gun over to the corner of the room behind the register, at the stack of gas cans. You remember them from when GoGo picked up gas from him for her fucking generator, the first time you had to threaten him into fucking submission. "You help her, or I burn this bitch to the ground."

One shot, one spark, and all that heat'd climb up and swallow this place whole.

You kinda wanna do it. Just to see what'd happen. It'd eat you alive. Wouldn't be such a fucking bad way to go out, would it?

_Focus._ You're doing this for GoGo. For _GoGo._

Tommy flinches.

"I'll have you banned from the fucking premises," he says, pointing at you with a trembling finger, like that'll be enough to muster whatever fragile authority he has. "I'll have you thrown out if you _ever_ come in here again."

That don't slap the smirk from your face. Like anything _could._

"Then you better start payin' for security." You lob the words out cocksure and so _fucking_ assured, like every bit of you ain't coming to pieces at the thought of GoGo's life hemorrhaging away outside. "Now you gonna give me what I want, or am I gonna have t'get _testy?"_

Maybe busting into the front owned by the single biggest supplier in all the Zones and demanding his fucking medical assistance weren't the best plan in the world. But it gets you what you asked for.

That's all that matters.

**\--**

**do you think you can break me?  
can you find me?**

**\--**

So GoGo's fine.

Or, okay. It's a messy deal, kinda, patching up that gash at her temple. But it weren't as bad as you thought it was ognna be. The blast from the bomb threw her forward, and the impact of her head against the ground knocked her out cold for a bit. You went to war in Tommy Chow Mein's storefront and you got a well-stocked first aid kit out of it. Maybe it wouldn't seem fucking worth it to've basically thrown out the only bit of dirt you had on Tommy and then set it on fire over a head wound that didn't turn out to be that big of a deal.

Except GoGo's okay and you got to hit Tommy in the face with your raygun, so it was totally fucking worth it.

"Oh my god," says GoGo, voice cracking, the first time she hears reports of it on the airwaves. Apparently Tommy were real chatty about the mouthy little prick who busted into his establishment and threatened to burn the whole place down. Can't have people thinking he's a _decent fucking human being_ who'd be willing to help somebody who's been _hurt._

Then GoGo laughs.

"You're _such_ an asshole," she says. She says it enough fondness to bleed a little warmth into your ribcage and you laugh when she pushes you, real light on the back of the head, with one hand. She almost sounds proud that you managed to fuck things up so tremendously while she was out for all of two hours.

You gotta pick up her slack while she's in recovery, brief as it is. You make the runs and do the dead drops for her, pick up supplies when you can. You can't swing by Tommy's in person, but that don't fucking matter. You get GoGo the signal scramblers from another buyer, some Zone-rat willing to trade her some encoders in exchange for some of the vintage gear she's got in no short supply at her station. And this buyer ain't secretly out to _gun her down_ or blow her station all to hell, which is always a goddamn plus. You've learned to show up early and case meeting spots before going through with any deals. Encrypting the hell outta her private signals means the threats and attempts on her life dial down a bit after that. Only a bit. You still get people following you from a distance, people asking too many questions about NewsAGoGo and what her station's like. You grin at them, needlepoint and acid, and tell them to think real hard about why they're asking you those questions. Sometimes you gotta back these words up with a fireburst of plasma and the smell of ozone.

Guess you don't get to be a voice out in the desert without making a couple dozen enemies.

Without meaning to you've turned into GoGo's runner, her second. That means picking up all sorts of things on the fly that you never thought twice about before, learning them as they come up, getting real fucking good at them whenever you can. Odds and ends. How to drive her bike. How to keep it running in prime condition. What all the hoses and pieces mean. The exact size and shape of the canisters BLi uses to gas the Zones. The chemical composition of "limeade." That you always gotta keep one or two spare lighters on hand 'cause you're gonna end up losing them and losing them and _losing_ them and you'll never figure out where the fuck any of them end up. The way the hyper-addictive tang of nicotine on your tongue steadies your shaking hands and makes working with wires and fragile shit that much easier. 

"That shit'll kill you," GoGo tells you once.

You laugh at her for that one. Like that ain't the goddamn point.

GoGo runs her station and you take apart whatever her agents find and leave in dead drops for her. Sometimes it's hard drives, shit that you don't take a second look at 'cause it ain't your business and GoGo's got the means to decrypt whatever the fuck's in them. But you're getting better at putting things together. Getting better at figuring where wires go, figuring what to do with the junk and scrap BLi tosses into the desert. They might think it's all garbage, but that don't mean it can't be handy. They thought _you_ was garbage, but you can still earn your fucking keep.

If GoGo ain't gonna throw you out, you ain't gonna give her a reason to. You can be handy, see? You can figure things out. You can scrape shit together to sell to Tommy. You got a reason to stay. She's got a reason to keep you.

Ain't gonna last forever. Nothing ever does. Not for you.

When GoGo gets back to baseline, when she don't get bouts of vertigo every time she moves too quick, you and her go out drinking at the Cemetery Window to celebrate. She gives you something lighter than before, asks Kerosene for a _ballena_ instead of one of their signature drinks. She can put away an impressive amount of alcohol for somebody who ain't that much bigger than you. She calls it a good constitution.

"Sure," you tell her, loose and warm and a little drunk. "Keep tellin' yourself that, you fuckin' alcoholic."

GoGo snorts so loud that she spurts some of her drink out onto the table.

Again there's that warmth that slams up against your throat when you look at her, watching her wiping at the beer and snot dribbled down her front from that explosive laugh that took you both off guard. Takes you a second to recognize it 'cause you can't remember a time in your life when you ever been this fucking _happy_ or _relaxed_ about anything. You look at her and she's -

Shut the fuck up. Shut the fuck up and don't fucking jinx it.

So you'd burn down the Zones for her, and when the hell'd that happen? When the hell'd you quit bracing yourself for the other shoe to drop, for her to turn around and tell you to get the fuck outta her life? Nothing's changed and _everything_ has and you got no fucking clue what any of it means or when it happened.

GoGo's gotta go ahead and complicate that even more, the bitch. She saunters into the station while you're tuning her in, prepping her for broadcast, and outta nowhere she drops a silvery something onto the desk.

You don't recognize it at first. Takes you a second to remember it as the pendant you picked up off of Tommy Chow Mein's shelves for no other reason besides the fact that you liked the look and feel of it, 'cause it had all these little bumps and grooves that you could run your fingertips over. It's circular, metal, with a shape worked like a star in the center of it. Numbers and letters and weird symbols you dunno the names of ring it and sit at the tines of each star and you stare at it for half a second before you stare at _her_ instead.

"Tommy still thinks you're a _complete_ asshole," says GoGo. "But he doesn't know this is going to you, so fuck him."

You should have an answer to that. Should, but you don't, 'cause this is the first thing anybody's ever _given_ you and you got half a mind to demand what it is she _wants_ for it. For once in your goddamn life your brain fails to supply you with anything remotely sharp-edged for a counterpoint. You dunno what the fuck to say to the fact that GoGo just gave you a gift for no goddamn discernible reason but she's already moseying past like she ain't inverted your entire world in a few words. She don't see you when you slip the pendant over your head. It sits around your neck along with those laces you yanked off of your city shoes the day you made it out into the Zones. Feels heavier than it is. You could tell her to go fuck herself and leave it at that but this has gotta be the first time you can remember _not_ wanting to do that 'cause it'd come across as mean without any fucking reason for it when she's trying to be fucking _nice_ and you said you wasn't gonna jinx it. You ain't gonna jinx it by calling her your friend. You're not. You said you wasn't gonna and you're _not_ fucking jinxing this. She ain't a friend. She ain't a friend. Don't think of her as a friend 'cause you don't have friends, not people like you. Just that it's getting real hard to think past the low-grade heat bleeding into your guts and _fuck._ Fuck.

_Fuck,_ you're in trouble.

**\--**

**oh god, my lovingly slaughtered god  
you think i won't gut you with my bare hands.**

**\--**

Fuck it. Forget it. Lose your mind. Quit paying any goddamn attention. You get wasted with GoGo and decide to ink your fingers. Your hands shake less when you're drunk, kinda like how they shake less whenever you're smoking. You carve the letters in ink into the backs of your fingers, one to each digit between the first and second knuckles.

"Oh my _god,"_ says GoGo, watching you. You can tell by the slant of her head that she's buzzed but not real drunk yet. Her words're still pretty clear. "You dumbass. You're gonna wake up hungover and wondering who wrote 'fuck' and 'shit' on your fingers and why it won't come off."

The ink bleeds a little. You're used to that. Those've gotta be the two most well-worn words in your vocabulary and you're drunk enough for it to feel like a damn good idea, so why the fuck shouldn't you?

You're gonna think of something to put on the back of your other hand, to match the _BOOM_ on your left. Said you was gonna cover yourself in ink, and you're holding yourself to it.

The skin around the letters goes red and puffy a few days later.

"You dumbass," GoGo says again, but 'cause you got that fully stocked first aid kit, she helps you clean and wrap your fingers when the tattoos get infected. Should've figured. This was only the second time you were doing your own ink, and the memory of Pandora and Lockdown doing it by needles is the only shit you got to go off of.

The mornings find you cursing 'cause you can't get your bandaged, aching fingers to do what you need them to in fixing up old gear and shit. The evenings find you and GoGo sat on the roof of her station drinking warm Pepsi from the can. It's flat, carbonation gone clean out. Tastes pretty goddamn awful, if you're honest.

"You're gonna like what I air tomorrow," says GoGo all smug. She was smug when she got back to the station from a supply run with a six-pack of soda and she's still fucking smug now. It's a look that you'd wanna punch clean off the face of anyone else but she makes it work. "Your ears're gonna _blista_ when you hear it."

She pops the word like it's one of her broadcasts. _Blista._

"Yeah?" Kinda fucking doubt that. She ain't never asked you about your taste in music, which fits 'cause you don't really got any. You only know the name of one group and that's the group that was all you had back in Battery City.

GoGo leans in close. _"Shampoo,"_ she says in a confidential whisper.

"Uh." Clearly the word's supposed to mean something to you. "'Kay?"

She blinks.

"Seriously? _Shampoo._ One of the biggest pre-war groups out there - c'mon, freak, you're killing me here." She shakes her head, takes a swallow from her can, and makes a face. "What _do_ you listen to?"

"Who d'you think?" you fire on back at her. "Ain't nobody like the Mad Gear and Missile Kid in any of the Zones."

GoGo groans, tipping her head back.

"Oh my _god,"_ she says with a laugh. "Can you get any more cliché? That's the same answer as any other fuckin' adrenaline junkie out here."

"Hey, _hey."_ Nobody gets to badmouth Mad Gear, all right? You, sure, you're used to that. But not fucking Mad Gear, all right? "That shit was the only tunes I had in Bat City."

GoGo goes quiet at that for a second.

"Oh," she says at last. She recovers quick. "Got good news for you, freak. Mad Gear's still kickin' and releasing new shit."

So you've heard. Be nice to fucking hear that new shit for once.

"Guess so." You shrug, and take another swallow of flat soda. Didn't get to hear much of that _new shit._ Last you checked, he'd had a new fucking LP but the Demon-Sharks didn't care for that shit so you never got to fucking hear it.

"All right," says GoGo with a sigh. "I'll play some Mad Gear tracks tomorrow, first thing. How's that sound, huh? Any requests for the AM?"

"The new shit," you answer immediately. "Whatever new shit he got. Somethin' about... _Straight through to hell_ or something."

"That's not even his newest shit." GoGo wrinkles her nose. "Damn, how long were you going without a radio, freak? Like missing a set of _eyes_ out here."

"Weren't my fault my last crew didn't wanna hear shit from DJs." You fire it off before you can question whether you _should_ and, well, _fuck_ but it's out there now. People don't talk about where they came from and you've had to drag two parts of your history out for GoGo's fucking scrutiny and you can't say you like the feel of it. Feels like someone digging around in your insides.

The soda takes some of the sting off it and you finish off the goddamn can. Flat as shit, no bubbles, but it's sugar and caffeine and chemicals. Tastes better than PowerPup or protein. That ain't saying much.

"Not everybody does," GoGo says. "Guess they don't remember where the desert came from."

"War?" Just a guess.

"Sorta." She cracks open another can and takes a long swallow before handing it off to you. It's warm from the lip of her mouth, roughly the same temperature as the sugars inside. "I mean, people were out here way before Better Living. Before any of the wars. Before there were _Zones._ Before anything. People used to live out here, 'till the cities moved in and replaced all the sand with highways."

You digest that quietly. Digest that and the lack of fizz from the soda in your can. You pass it back to her. She fiddles with the snap-top but don't drink from it.

"Y'know a lotta shit about the Zones." It ain't a question. It's searching in the same way a question is, but you already know the answer to it. The answer you're looking for is to the question you ain't asking as loud.

"Lived out here my whole life," says GoGo. She shrugs. "You pick up a few things."

You remember. She said it during one of the times you tried to rob her. It's hard to get a read on her age, same as it's hard to get read on anybody's age out here. 'Specially 'cause, like you, she's real goddamn short and even when she ain't covering her face, a life out under the sun has beaten lines and burn scars into her skin that makes her age tough to pick out. She's older than you. You knew that when you met her. Maybe by five, six years if you had to guess, but you dunno.

Wanna ask her what it's like. Wanna ask her - _how do you know the shit you know?_ You know how _you_ know the shit you know. You know it was 'cause you had your hands locked into circuitry as soon as you was old enough to figure out what two wires spooled together meant. You took apart your headphones, you fixed busted droids, you messed with scrap metal and didn't care if you cut your thumbs open on the edges. But how's _she_ know? Was she like you, born with motor oil in her blood and a knack for how things come together?

Gotta wonder if you was always gonna find that book covered in color and words and singing about electricity and metal and Destroya. Was he out there, keeping an eye on you, even back in Bat City, waiting for the words to reach you? Maybe it was the Witch. She's the one who's in charge of fate and all.

Nah. That'd be dumb. You were just a dumb kid back then and you're still a dumb kid now. Nothing special. Nothing a desert god would bother with, yeah?

"Destroya teach you how to take shit apart too?" That's the only way you can lob the question her way. Couching it in a sneer, cocking your head to one side, leaning back on the roof when GoGo passes you back her soda can.

"No," she says quietly. "Not Destroya. Maybe. I dunno. Not _entirely."_

"Not _entirely?"_ You snort, swig down the remainder of the drink in the can, and belch. 

"Nice one."

"Fuck yeah it was."

"They weren't the only ones," says GoGo, swinging things back around. She catches your look, sidelong and eyebrows raised, and she looks away, out at the desert's cooling dusk. "Destroya and the Phoenix Witch. There were more of them. Others. Those two're the only ones people remember, so I guess they're the only ones that're still around."

She says it like it's fact. Like they're people you can phone up whenever. You done your share of praying to both of 'em and ain't got any answers yet, but you ain't sure it means anything. Not like you'd take a message from some greasy Zone-rat who only got stuck in god business outta chance. Not like you done anything for either one of 'em, right?

You ain't seen 'em or heard from 'em directly but what's that matter? You ain't seen the Director in charge of BL/ind either. Only seen her on TV screens and pictures, quotes of things she's said that get posted on billboards and used as slogans. Don't mean she ain't real. People make images of her and mount her on their walls and that ain't so different from painting up a mailbox and sticking it in the sand to beckon souls to life after this one, or writing an entire goddamn _bible_ for an entire people to draw their faith from. So BL/ind might have the Director, but killjoys've got the Phoenix Witch and Destroya, all right?

Maybe people don't believe in 'em, the Witch or Destroya. The Demon-Sharks didn't. But they don't got any say in what you do or think _now,_ do they? Hell no.

"Y'know the others?" you ask her, fishing out another can and cracking it open. She's been out here longer than you, so she'd know them, right?

"I know there were five," says GoGo, "but I dunno their names. Just the two."

Right. The two everybody knows. The god of death and fate and fortune. The god of electricity and destruction and machinery. A god for the dead and a god for the droids. And where the hell does that leave everybody else? They gotta claw for these scraps, pray they mean something. Pray that a god of the dead listens to the living. Pray that a god for the mechanical gives a damn about people made of meat and bone.

"Sucks for them," you offer at last. And then you offer her your Pepsi.

GoGo contemplates the can for a second, then takes it.

"Yeah," she says quietly. The darkening sky makes it hard to get a read on her face, but her voice is strange. Don't have most of the pep and vigor she uses in all her broadcasts. It's her indoor voice. The voice she only ever uses when it's you and no one else.

Like she ain't putting on a mask when it's you.

Thinking the words jolts a sharp stab up into your ribs. Fuck. Can't let yourself get stuck on this, freak, c'mon. Get it together. Don't let this fucking pull you to pieces. You know better than that.

"Hey, Monster," says GoGo, and her tone's still a little off. She's using your actual _name_ which she only does when it's something serious. She shifts so that she's looking at you. Straight on. The vague light of the swollen moon, shaded by smog, reflects off the dark pits of her eyes. "Can you do me a solid?"

You shrug. "Shoot."

"Think you could call me 'they' sometimes?" When you don't answer right away, she keeps talking. "Not all the time. I just...I was thinking about the words people use on the airwaves. Like, a luneshine's somebody that's not a woman or a man. And sometimes it'd be nice to not be either one, so I was - "

"Sure," you interrupt, 'cause you can tell by the cadence of her speech as the words're getting faster that she's working herself up. When the hell'd that become second nature to you? Figuring out when GoGo's reaching her limit? That ain't important. Ignore that. Point is, she's nice enough to've brought up something you been thinking over yourself. "'Long as you do the same for me."

GoGo stares at you a minute, then laughs.

"All right, freak," she says. Just like that she's back to her regular old rhythm, and _fuck_ if that ain't the most reassuring thing in the world. 

GoGo picks out another of their soda cans, snaps it open and taps the aluminum to yours.

"I'll drink to that."

**\--**

**we take to the end of the world with a mad howling,  
i wear a lionesses head,  
i wear my bravery like a wound.**

**\--**

People start finding the station. That's how you know everything's changing and in hindsight you should've seen it coming. GoGo's getting a name for herself on the airwaves. She's fighting a hell of a fight against BLi. The city's noticed. So've the Zone-rats. Even the ones that ain't hers.

First time a couple of zonerunners stumble into the station, it sounds like it must've been some kinda accident. Must've been, 'cause neither of them look to be expecting to find anybody out here. They ride in on their cycle, knock at the shed, and ask if anybody's got some spare gas.

You ain't the people person GoGo is. They answer. You sit behind them and keep working on the detonation you're trying to piece together out of an old limeade canister. You got one ear on the talking outta habit, but it don't worry you.

"Hi," says GoGo, goggles askew. They weren't mid-broadcast but they _were_ mid-nap. Like you, they wake quick. "Sorry. We don't...we never get people out here."

They ain't lying. This has gotta be a fucking first.

"You're...wait." The Zone-rat who's doing the talking's got tawny hair wind-blown and stained orangish from the dust. They blink as they frown at GoGo. "Do I - do I know you?"

GoGo laughs slightly, a nervous hitch in the back of their throat that you don't think they always know they do when they start getting antsy. 

"Doubt it," says GoGo. "Don't get out much." It's the truth. People don't _know them_ 'cause they stay outta the way of most people, only leaves their station when they've got to. Make their trips pretty quick. The only time they go out for fun is to drink at the Cemetery Window and even then they only hang around with _you._ Don't bother to chat up anybody else. Their station's about as isolated as it gets. Only way people _would_ know them's by voice, and it honesty should've occurred to you quicker than it did that that's exactly what this is.

"Oh my god," says the Zone-rat at the door, voice spiking upward excitedly. _"Uso_ \- you're NewsAGoGo!"

"I, uh." From your position in the shed, you can see GoGo freeze and their grip on the door tighten slightly. "Yeah. Yeah, that's me."

"I listen to your station _all the time,"_ the burner gushes. "You - you played some of those _Shampoo_ demo tracks, the ones no one's ever _heard_ before!" They're bouncing on the balls of their feet.

Should you spook them outta here? They're kinda making a lotta noise, and you can tell from the rigidity of GoGo's back that they ain't exactly cool with this.

"Look, I have some scans I still need to take today," says GoGo.

"Oh - oh, of _course._ I don't wanna bother you," says the Zone-rat. They kinda sound like they mean it. "Sorry. Sorry! I just - I need to know if you have any gas. Our cycle's out, and..."

"We have fuel," says GoGo quietly. If the burners don't get why they keep saying _"we"_ neither of them say anything about it. "It's yours if you can keep our location to yourself."

"Of _course,"_ the burner says again, sounding like it's something sacred. Being entrusted with secrets from _the_ legendary NewsAGoGo? Yeah, you dunno if that's gonna last. Think it's real likely that they'll turn around and brag to their buddies as soon as it gets convenient. They can't catch your suspicious eye from inside.

"Your pal too," says GoGo, with a jerk of their chin.

"We're not saying anything to _anybody,"_ the Zone-rat promises. "Right, Matchstick?"

That ain't the only time someone runs into the station. Not two days later, GoGo gets some visitors and these ones have the misfortune to show up while nobody else is home but you. Pretty sure their intentions ain't nearly as _benign,_ 'cause you're smoking on the roof when they stop by and you're lucky that they don't see you. Maybe those bad luck beads're paying off. The angle of the approach means that you're mostly hidden behind the sloper set-up on the roof. Two burners. Don't look like nothing special. They got their guns out and you see them trying to get the door open, but it's deadbolted shut.

There ain't much you can do from your vantage point except wait for them to leave. You could shoot 'em, but the return fire could end up frying GoGo's radio setup and you ain't here to do the fucking setup work all the fuck over again, all right? Eventually they abandon their efforts and drive off into the dust. Must not've been too committed to the idea of wasting NewsAGoGo.

The third time it happens, you're both home and so you both fucking _total_ those tumbleweeds that try to carry off the fucking mast keeping the dipole antenna off the ground. The brainless audacity of it'd get to you if it weren't also the same dumb-shit kinda thing you were pulling off when you _met_ GoGo. How long ago was that? Months now.

You been in one place for months and it's gonna fucking kill you.

It's gonna kill these bastards first. They put up a fight, 'cause of fucking course they do. They pull their weapons. You're quicker. You got a shell of an old grenade you been itching to try out for days since it made its way back to the station with a shitload of other parts. You sling it right at 'em and turn two of the fuckers into a red and brown paste that paints up the corrugated steel walls outside the shed. The third one gets lucky in that they don't get blown to bits in the impact. They draw quicker and the detonation must startle them good enough to disrupt their aim, 'cause they snag GoGo on the shoulder even though they're standing close enough to get a clear shot of her head.

The boom's louder than you expect. Your ears're ringing. They're still ringing when you pick yourself up off the ground and they don't _quit_ ringing but the blast didn't knock you too far off kilter if you can still yank the knife outta your boot and put it in the back of the last motor rat's spine. They go down silently. Clean or messy, it was quick for all three of them. Quicker than they earned.

_Sadistic son of a bitch. Who says they earned -_

Shut up, _god,_ shut the fuck -

Can't hear for a second. Ears're still ringing. GoGo's saying something but all you can see's her mouth moving. You shake your head, point to your ears. She's got one hand over the bleeding, smoking burn on her upper arm.

It takes a couple hours before your hearing's back to normal, or close enough to it that it feels like it. It's a good thing too, 'cause you got words to split with GoGo over this.

"We gotta move," you tell her.

GoGo's long since cleaned and bandaged up her injury, and is already paging through different messages and queueing up broadcasts like there weren't three Zone-rats trying to make off with her livelihood a few hours ago. Death is simple as breathing out here. People try to ghost you, you ghost 'em right back, and then you sit down and get back to whatever business you had going on beforehand. That don't shock you anymore. Kinda never did. The Lobby had enough of the dead and dying for it not to've spooked you by the time you ended up out here.

What's getting you's that GoGo ain't packing up her shit and gearing up to leave. And why should she? Actually, why the fuck should she? She ain't left this rig in months. Maybe years. You dunno how long she's been out here. Why the fuck would she leave now?

Maybe 'cause now people know where she is. And since people know, it's only a matter of time 'till BL/ind knows.

"Sorry?" says GoGo without looking away from her soundboard and transceiver.

"We gotta move," you tell her again, louder. Can't tell if the volume's still fucked in your ears. Does it matter? Don't matter. "People know where you live now. Gonna come after you."

She looks at you, eyebrows raised in evident bemusement.

"I mean, yeah," she says. "This isn't a mobile station."

"Yeah, and it's fuckin' - " The fact that she don't sound surprised by this stops you dead. "Thought you was signal scrambling."

"I am. But the Zones're only so big." GoGo shrugs. "Occupational hazard."

"BL/ind finds out where you are, they're gonna come for you."

"They're welcome to try," GoGo says steadily. "But those guys weren't BLi."

She's ducking, dodging, skipping 'round the point like it don't matter. Waving it off. _And why the hell're you so concerned?_ Shouldn't be. She knows her shit, been living here for god fucking knows how long, longer by far than _you._ But she's only been DJing for a few months and if a few months of this has put a target on her back then what the fuck's gonna come crashing down if she keeps this up? She's waging war here. She said she was gonna wage war and a handful of motor rats trying to make a quick buck with some DJ's gear've got nothing on what BL/ind can muster if they find her worth taking out.

So why the hell don't it _bother_ her?

"All the more fuckin' reason to go mobile."

"No," says GoGo abruptly, firmly, with a sharp fucking frown. "Mobility sacrifices accessibility to my agents. I need my eyes, and the desert needs to tune into me when it needs it."

_That ain't gonna matter if you're dead._ You don't say it. You don't fucking say it 'cause you're trying not to picture it and as soon as the sight worms its way into your head you wanna crack your skull open with a two-by-four so you don't gotta fucking _see_ it anymore. GoGo shot. GoGo bleeding. Already sat through this once. _Shut up!_ She can handle herself. _She don't need you bitching to her._ She knows. She knows, she knows, they know, they don't need you fucking looking after them. Can handle herself. Can - _god, shut up._ Shut the fuck up.

What's it fucking matter to you? Huh? What's it fucking matter what GoGo chooses to do?

It don't matter.

It don't matter when you lurch awake with the mental image of GoGo's brains blown out over their transceiver. Don't fucking matter when you start trying to work out the intricacies of laying bombs and mines underneath the sand, pressure-plated and motion-sensored and capable of detonating on anybody who weren't invited special. Those're real pipe dreams. Not like you got the brains to put something like that together. Don't mean you can't still put together _something_ useful.

GoGo fields calls and plays sounds on the airwaves. She plays you Mad Gear tracks and you fall the fuck in love with his noise all over again. She flips between languages faster than you can track what she's speaking, Spanish and Cantonese and Punjabi and Japanese and Yiddish and god knows what else. You mess with whatever old glitched-up chunks of machinery they got lying around. Before all this you was trying to fix up a stub to blot out all those goddamned BL/ind freqs from clogging up GoGo's transmissions, but that ain't your priority so much after you saw those Zone-rats go _boom_ when you fucked 'em up with a flung grenade. So maybe you ain't the best shot in the world, 'cause your eyes're shit, and you suck at laying people flat with a good punch, 'cause you're like five feet tall or whatever. But you're better with wires and machinery, anything that has a metal pulse, than anybody you know. The crews you ran with, they kept you around 'cause you could get their rides going when they couldn't. The droids in the Lobby knew to turn to you to patch their shorted circuits and broken joints. You can put shit together and you can make things _run,_ but you figure you can do yourself one better. You can do fucking better than that 'cause you're the mad son of a bitch who saw a stack of television sets and set those fuckers on fire to get outta the city. You saw a gas station fucking explode and you waited out the heat and smoke so you could scavenge what was left from the ashes. You survived the blast that took GoGo outta commission. You pointed a raygun at a stack of gas cans and knew that one shot would light up an entire fucking storefront.

So you're all right at putting shit together, but you're even better at taking shit apart. Or making shit that _takes_ shit apart. Gotta knack for it. A knack for wrecking shit. There ain't no manuals for the component pieces of bombs and things that go _boom_ but maybe that's something you get from Destroya, a line of electricity straight into your fucking soul. Maybe that's how you got the sense for figuring how to gut anything and everything and turn it into something that can explode. It's the same as cars, same as radios, same as droids, same as damn near everything electronic you lay your hands on. Dunno. Don't matter. What matters is you got an instinct for what makes the loudest blast. 

You figure out what burns easy and what don't. What chemicals mixed together can make the biggest crater. So GoGo ain't shifting their station but that don't mean you're gonna let them be helpless. GoGo don't notice you trekking out into the dust, heading out miles from her station to set off blasts so that even if somebody sees the smoke or hears the detonation it don't put her in the crosshairs. Nobody does. There really ain't anybody out here, most days.

You figure out how to make napalm. You teach yourself how to make a cheap bomb from a glass bottle full of liquid that burns easy and a flaming rag and later you hear GoGo calling it a _molotov_ , whatever the fuck that means. You got no shortage of supplies from the slinga dead drops and the scrap bins in the shed and whatever odds and ends GoGo picks up from Tommy Chow Mein. You figure out the exact right combination of methanol, oil, and nitro compounds that'll get you homemade fuel, insurance for whenever gas prices get jacked up. You figure out how to pack as much incendiary shit into a pipe bomb as possible, tighten it the fuck up so that it blows _big_. Those _bangs_ and _booms_ ain't nowhere near the level of the kinds of bombs Bat City's dropped on the Zones before but that don't mean they don't feel good. You're picking up what detonation feels like, how it's a surer bet than throwing fists or shooting guns 'cause it covers a broader radius, so maybe that burner who tried to ghost you and GoGo had the right idea about the most efficient way to fuck someone else up. Nobody teaches you this shit. You figure it out, like you got gasoline and motor oil churning through your veins. You smoke too many cigarettes. You get high on paint fumes and desolation.

Maybe it's 'cause bombs is the same shit you were already doing, but _better._ You're bottling chaos. Putting a fuse on mayhem. Gas cans. Chemicals. Pressure packed into limeade canisters. Blown-out ear drums and your hands getting spattered with shrapnel when you fling 'em up to cover your head from a blast that goes off too soon.

GoGo's busy being a DJ. Busy, and letting you do whatever the fuck you want. Kinda like how you could run around and do whatever the fuck you wanted, back in Bat City.

That ain't what this is like.

Can't be. Isn't. 'Cause if it was - 

That ain't what this is like.

**\--**

**i wear corpse bells around my ankles  
and they sing of all the death i've become.**

**\--**

The next time somebody finds the station, your streak of good luck runs out.

Always figured it would.

You don't hear them coming. You didn't think your ears were all that blown out from the explosions you been setting off lately but you guess you ain't the best judge of that 'cause the next thing you know there's a hand fisted into the material of your jacket and you're being wrenched up off your feet, swung around, and slammed up against shed's exterior wall.

"Where's GoGo?" You glimpse lips peeled back over yellowing teeth, pale smears of burn scars sliced down across gold-tinted skin, jaundiced eyes gone bloodshot.

The knife's in your hand in half a second. You swing it up to plunge it into the motherfucker's neck. They catch your wrist and _twist,_ viciously, 'till your fingers cramp and go numb and the blade drops harmlessly into the sand. You don't scream. You don't fucking scream. You kick out and try to catch them where it hurts.

"Blow me."

The motor rat laughs. Their lips're cracked with pinkish scars that spiderweb out across their face in a rash of raw, reddened skin, crawling up to their scalp. A short crop of blonde hair sprouts out down the center of their skull, an asymmetry rendered by the scarring at the crown of their head. The sun rashes're a pretty obvious tell that this is a wavehead and look, you got nothing against waveheads personally. If they don't mess with you then you got no call to mess with them, but this one's very clearly fucking _messing_ with you and you got a fucking problem with that.

"Don't recall GoGo havin' a runner," says the wavie. "Guess that makes you expendable."

_"Hey."_ GoGo's tone cuts across the feeling of a raygun jammed up against your chin, forcing your head back, making it hard to goddamn see anything but the wavie's scalp and the places where their hair don't grow anymore. "Hey! Put 'em down!"

"GoGo," says the wavie. Great. Someone else who fucking _knows_ her. Probably here to fuck her up. Not happening. You'll fuck 'em up _first_ \- 

They let go of you pretty much immediately. You hit the ground, nearly end up on your fucking face, but you're scrambling the fuck up and spitting out sand in half a second. You get your gun out within the next throb of your heart, snap it up, and it turns out that the wavie has a friend, 'cause then there's an arm hooked 'round your neck yanking you back and another arm closing over your shooting arm and pinning it down to your side and - nobody gets to fucking _touch_ you like that, not anymore. You convulse like there's a fucking electric current chasing your spine. You're yelling. Dunno what it is you're yelling, but you're sure as shit _yelling_ it.

"I said to put 'em down!" GoGo's shout is the only thing that splits through the roaring in your blood. Hands on your arms. Hands around your neck. Back to a chain-link fence being strangled into numbness being grabbed from behind _he can't keep fucking doing this to you, you'll kill him before he lays his fucking hands on you again -_

"Little bastard was gonna shoot us!" says the fucker holding you. You keep wrenching in their grasp. Try to angle your head so you can fucking sink your teeth into the skin of their forearm, give them something to _bitch_ about.

"You fuck with Monster, you fuck with me," says GoGo. Her goggles've been shoved back, making her outrage real fucking apparent. "Now _put them down."_

You're gonna fuck them up. Gonna fuck them _both_ up for this. They don't get to lay hands on you, don't get to manhandle you, don't get to _fucking touch you_ like that, got that? You don't do that shit anymore, don't nobody get that?

The wavie's partner lets you go. You hit the dirt for a second time, roll, claw to retrieve your knife. Up on your feet again in less than half a second, spitting sand and shaking the overlong hair from your eyes, teeth bared at the piece of shit you're about to _fuck up_ for thinking they could dick with you -

GoGo's staring at them. She's got her gun out but it's already tilting downward.

"Holy shit," she mutters. "You're - "

"Agents Pork Soda 'n MT, at your service," says the wavie with the blonde sidecut. They grin, sun-cracked lips pulled back over a smile that's missing more than a few teeth. "Figured we'd find you eventually."

"You really found me," says GoGo, sounding weirdly - impressed. She lowers her weapon all the way, like you didn't just get the shit kicked outta you. Actually, why would that fucking matter? Why would she care, huh? You're fine. Bruised around the windpipe, scraped up, sure, but when the fuck ain't you? You cough, rub your throat. Nobody looks at you. That's fucking fine.

"'Course," the wavie says. Their voice rasps enough to make _you_ wanna get a goddamn drink of water. There's a whitish line laced across their neck just below the chin, a smile cut from scar tissue that assures you that you ain't the only motherfucker out here who's wanted to slit their goddamn throat. "You're our eyes 'n ears, GoGo. We wanted to meet you personal."

GoGo stares. Her eyes flick to you, and she looks to come back to earth for a second.

"Uh - Monster," she says. Stammering, stumbling - this ain't like her. The fuck's gotten into her? You keep rubbing your throat and eye her like you ain't sure what she's gonna spring for next. She starts for you, then stops. Bet she can feel the radioactive hatred seething off you like the stink off roadkill. Her face flickers and there's an expression there you don't got time to name before it's gone again. "These're two of my finest supastars. Last week, those zaps you left in the big tire - those were for them."

Should've figured that the second they introduced themselves. GoGo's agents, their names all hold to a general theme. GoGo tends to end her broadcasts with _pop!_ so most of them went and named themselves after, you guess, bootleg soda pop.

"Guess NewsAGoGo _does_ have a runner," says the wavie. They throw their head back with a laugh. "Sorry 'bout that, pint-size."

You look at 'em and you can tell you're smiling, 'cause the angles of it're digging into your cheeks. The wavie seems to read that as a good sign, and grins back. Apology fuckin' accepted, right?

Let them think that. It'll make it easier to pop one into the back of their fucking skull when they ain't _looking_ \- 

Cut it out. _God._ These're people you've fucking helped. People you've left shit for at the dead drops. People you ain't never fucking met 'till right about now.

"Pork Soda," says the wavie in blonde, settling a hand over their chest. "Call me a starshine, tumbleweed. My associate over there's Agent Mount Dew. MT. Him and me, we're brothas under the new AM order."

Right. Sure. Okay. Whatever the _fuck_ that means.

MT don't say much. Guess Pork Soda's the talker of the two. MT nods, but he don't say a word. You take 'em both in quick and easy. Pork Soda: short, stocky, broad-shouldered, bit of a gut. Gold-brown complexion where the wave-burns ain't cratered his skin into pockmarked scabs of brown and red. The sun-rashes makes it hard to say how old he is but you're willing to bet it's older than you or GoGo based on the lines creasing his face. MT: got a few inches on Soda but pretty fucking lanky by contrast. Wears dark glasses and a bandana on the lower half of his face that makes it hard to get a read on him age-wise. His hair's bound back in a dark tail of sweat-stiffened spikes. Deceptively wiry, despite looking all skin and bone. Got skin darker than yours or Soda's, but that's about all you can see at the outset. Oh wait, no - got long tracks of burns stretching up the skinny expanse of one arm, meaning he's probably a wavie too. Hides it better than his buddy, but that ain't saying much.

They look like a couple of motherfuckers.

You're gonna fuck 'em up when they ain't looking out for it. Give 'em what's coming to 'em for jumping you. You're still fucking smiling, you sick _fuck,_ but GoGo ain't looking at you anymore.

"Seriously, what're you guys doing here?"

"Like I said," says Soda, "wanted to meet you personal. That, and give you this." He gives her something small and white and blocky. You dunno what the fuck it is but GoGo's eyes go wide and she looks pretty damn floored by the gesture. Then she invites the pair of them in to shoot the shit for a couple hours or something, which is fucking fantastic, really it is, 'cause it gives you an excuse to fuck off and do something on your own.

You been fucking tied down to this fucking shack for too long, that's what's wrong. You ain't handy to her no more. That's what's happening. You ain't important enough. You know. You fucking _know,_ all right? That's how it fucking works.

Look, ain't like you didn't see this coming. You seen it coming for weeks now. You seen it coming since the day GoGo _met_ you. It's a fucking relief to have it boiling over, cracking down over the back of your neck the way it is. Really. Goddamn relief to finally see the other shoe drop.

You got time out here in the heat and the sand to dick around and do whatever the fuck you want. Normally blowing some new craters into Zone Four might burn out some of the fight in your blood but that ain't proving so easy. Your fingers slip and tremble when your skin prickles with the the ghost of the pressure of fingers around your throat, raygun rammed beneath your chin, elbow yoking you in place. You stab splatters of ink onto scraps of paper and keep _fucking_ up the designs you're trying to sketch out and you curse and glower but none of it makes it any better. Only thing that'll make this burning better is to bleed it out. You know the best way to do it.

Your next ink is one you do yourself. It's denser and darker than the _BOOM_ on the back of your hand and the letters on your knuckles. It's a chain of dark circles, a shadowy imprint of your bad luck beads. You don't got the finesse to inscribe the Japanese lettering into each of the beads but you close the loop around the radius of your left wrist with your ink and your needle, even if it stings like nothing else. Never done anything as concentrated as this. Bet it'll itch and burn for days afterward.

Fine. Good. It should. Maybe that'll _bleed_ the shit luck outta you, leak the bad fate out in a weeping current of blood and ink and pus until there ain't nothing left to be wrung out from inside you. Wanna sink your teeth into the veins at the base of your wrist, the throbbing blue laid beneath the skin, and _rip_ at it 'till it all gushes out, scarlet and sickening.

Maybe now the bad luck'll steer clear of your flesh when the fortune in your beads runs out.

You don't got a lotta hope for that, but it's better than nothing.

Just saying, you'd get it if a big, important god like the Phoenix Witch or Destroya had something better to do than to listen some Bat Rat, some shitty rubberburning nobody with no friends and nothing to your name. You wouldn't listen to you neither, but you don't got much choice in that.

There's better prayers out there than yours. God knows you dunno what it is you're praying for anymore, other than a way _out_ from this, from all of this.

Fuck knows if you got any goddamn clue what you mean for that to be anymore.

**\--**

**oh end of the world, my darling end of the world,  
how recklessly i break myself against the whole of you.**

**\--**

By the time you're back at the station, GoGo's agents're gone and GoGo herself is at the rig again. Like nothing went down.

The skin on your wrist's started to go an angry red between the irregular spots of blood it's now weeping out from the dotted splotches of ink.

"Hey, freak," says GoGo. She spins in her seat, her eyes bright. Whatever intel her agents gave her, it must've been good. "Where you been?"

Trick question. She don't care.

You're right. She don't wait too long for your answer. She takes your silence in stride and talks like there weren't no bump in the road.

"Never gonna guess the intel my agents're getting me." She tugs her headphones down so they hang around her neck. She's babbling breakneck, barely stopping to breathe. Adrenaline high. Got no call to pay any damn mind to you and why should she? Why should she give a damn? Ain't you been waiting for this? You known this was coming, yeah?

Kinda wonder how far you can push this now. She gonna keep waiting for you to fucking respond, or does she just wanna fling words at somebody to get 'em all out? You don't fucking look at her. She keeps talking.

"They ripped a hard drive of _architectural city specs,"_ says GoGo, her voice low and eager. "Underpasses into the city. We're talking ultra high security here, the kinds of access tunnels for high security personnel. _Scarecrows_ use this shit. We could smuggle people in and outta the city. We could plant agents right in BL/ind's den!"

She's taking off. Big ideas. Big fucking ideas. She don't need you anymore and some part of you's gotta wonder if she ever did. She's smart. Smart enough to've made this station work on her own. Everything you did weren't so difficult and complicated that GoGo couldn't do it herself. Probably could've done it better. Why she ain't told you to scram yet? She should. She _should_ fucking tell you that - should tell you _fuzakeru na_ and _fongool_ and _get the fuck out._ She ain't told you to ditch her goddamn station because - why?

"We can't fight them with fire. Not something as big as them. But we can take them apart from inside. Plant anarchy right in their walls." GoGo's still talking. Talking like one of her broadcasts, all stars and sensation. She's got two fingers hooked around the loop of her headphones but she ain't looking at you. She's staring out the window, her expression all lit up. She gets so fucking excited that she talks at a mile a minute and her eyes get this bright pulse to them. There's a feeling like a fist crushing a can in the bone cage of your ribs.

She ain't gonna move. She ain't gonna go mobile. They're gonna come for her and break her station and break _her_ and you're gonna have to fucking sit there and fucking watch it happen.

There ain't room in the Zones for a thing like pity but now you gotta wonder. You gotta fucking wonder if it was fucking pity that's kept her thinking that she ought'a keep you around. Easy as that, now there's viral acid up in your veins, turning your blood to something toxic and blistering. Like she got any damn right to pity you. _You?_

GoGo's still talking. You don't give a fuck.

"You gotta move," you tell her, interrupt whatever the fuck she's talking about. She stops, looks at you with the question in the tilt of her head.

"Uh. What?" She laughs, but it's a nervous hitch, a stutter of sound that makes your gut clench 'cause it's the same kinda noise you make and you don't need people picking up your _quirks,_ your _tone,_ your shitty laughter and the fucking sounds you make. You don't fucking _need that,_ not from her, not from anyone. Can barely stand it coming from you, all right?

"You gotta move," you tell her again. "People're findin' this station - BL/ind's gonna find it next."

"Let them," says GoGo. Her eyes go hard and flinted. "My slingas've got my back."

Right.

She don't need you watching her back no more. Did she ever? What the fuck've you ever done for her anyway? Thought you could make this right? Thought you could help her? Thought - 

Thought a lotta things.

There's a metal coin on a string looped around your neck. Feels like it's burning a fucking hole into your heart, a line into your goddamn soul.

"Right," is all you gotta say to that.

Their slingas make more house calls, soon enough. You stay the fuck outta their way. Pork Soda's the most frequent offender, but sometimes he brings friends. Other agents, all of them wavies like him. You don't know what the fuck their names are and you don't fucking ask either. You stay outta the fucking way. GoGo, for somebody who went to all that effort to stay off the fucking grid, don't seem to care much about this little development. Maybe it's 'cause they trust that these people've got their back. You ain't forgotten the fucker that tried to blow them all to hell when they met them for a signal scrambler. You ain't forgotten, even if it seems like they have.

You're tallying up the parts of your life you can pack up and take with you. You don't think too much on why you do it but you been getting real careless about the things that're yours and the things that're GoGo's, letting them overlap too goddamn much. You got a good count of all the things that're _yours,_ no question. Your clothes, all too big for you, cut down to size from the dead bastards you took them off of. Whatever bits and pieces you've picked up over time: couple lighters, a set of wooden beads, a box of needles, a bottle of stolen ink, a pad of paper. The shit you fixed up that GoGo weren't gonna use, like the PTTP you patched and got going again. Your gun - still the same scuffed-up, white blaster you've had since the Battery - and the knife you keep in your boot. Pair of shoelaces you keep 'round your neck. A pendant that hangs there like a fucking noose.

It's the first time you've let your shit get spread out, like you was ready to stay here all permanent. _Dumbass._ Should know better than that. Never should've let yourself get this fucking careless. When the hell've you ever been this careless?

The station's picking up speed. GoGo's asking you to do more and more of the legwork since she can't be away from her station for very long these days. She's busy running her scans and keeping her eyes on the Zones. Reporting scarecrow movements, which Zones're getting hit by limeade bombardments, which agents've been spotted doing what business. You take her bike and you keep your grip tight on the handles. Can't help but wonder what'd happen if you turned that cycle out into the dust and _drove_ \- how long it'd take for her to realize that you weren't coming back.

Used to be you could cut those ties without second thought, without guesses, without lies. Now it's like there's this big chain hooked 'round your middle, hauling you back. Like GoGo's got you on this tight fucking _leash_ \- like they think they can grip you, pin you against a barbed-wire fence, squeeze your fucking throat until your brain goes _dead._ Oh, you know how this shit goes. You know how this world fucking works by now. You know what's gonna happen, what always happens. You gotta run before it hits you. Only way to claw free of what's coming.

Only it ain't a chain around your gut or a hand around your neck. It's a pendant you run your thumbnail over when your hands get restless and you don't got any smokes on hand to keep your fingers busy. 

Bitch probably planned this. Knew that if they gave you a reason to give a shit, it'd be that much harder to turn away. That how they rope their agents in? That how they lure their slingas?

'Course it is. You advised them. Hell, you gave them the goddamn instruction manual on how to do it.

And it worked perfect. 'Cause you're a goddamn master at getting people to decide you're worth the investment 'till they inevitably decide to cut you loose, and who wouldn't? But you know how it goes. How to balance the give and take. You went and handed that over to GoGo and they up and turned it on you and what the _fuck_ do they think they're doing, twisting that around on you? They think you wouldn't notice?

You didn't. Not at first. Took a while to see it. But now you see it, see all of it for what it really is.

You pull back into the station late. The temp's dropped and the faded scatter of stars flung up into the dark canvas of the sky sets a black backdrop against the icy hiss of your breath between your teeth. You can hear the radio still going. Bet GoGo's still awake. Bet they're waiting to rag on you for getting back late.

They're not.

GoGo's passed out on their desk, slumped forward, headphones slightly askew. Their hands have formed up into fists, breath tight and irregular. Expression's pinched up like they're seeing something they don't like the look of. Every here and again they twitch, sporadic, inhaling sharp through their nose.

You leave the blanket from their cot slung over their shoulders when you stump into the shed.

**\--**

**we strip blood from our veins,  
we crack iron from our teeth,  
and we pierce bones through our skin.**

**\--**

_"This one's for all you fucking monsters out there,"_ says GoGo, cheerful, chirping tinny and pitched through motorbike speakers. _"The record that's fast become a Zone-wide classic, and I'm sure needs no introduction -_ Straight through to hell. Till the morning come."

They been playing Mad Gear's tunes more often since you told them you missed his last two records. That last call-out was for you special. After spending way too much of your life only hearing the same two records, it's fucking beyond you that there's these whole-ass songs, new and sharp and needly and full of static and buzz and _life,_ to join the ones that kept your heart pumping in Bat City. You know the words to every goddamn Mad Gear song there is. You can recite every word, anticipate every percussive crash, bounce with the amplitudes when they blitz into your bloodstream. You can recite every word to _SkeleTon KreW_ back to front, the tracklisting seared into your veins.

One day you're gonna fucking explode, and you want the Mad Gear and Missile Kid to be the soundtrack when it happens.

You're heading in from a supply run when your heart kick-drums in your ribs 'cause there's a couple motherfuckers outside the station and it takes less than a second for you to read the fucking situation. One of them's got GoGo up against the pleated steel wall. She kicks out but her feet're too damn short to connect.

You're charging for the fucker before you can register what the hell you're doing and why. A ragged yell's tearing outta your throat when you spring for them, leap and wrap your arms around their neck and then you're biting down hard on their fucking ear. Tastes like sweat and grit and salt and yeah, it's fucking disgusting but the bastard yowls in agony and lets go of GoGo and that's what you was going for. You start punching the bitch in the neck. They wheeze, clawing at your hands.

Then there's fingers dug into your hair, threatening to yank the roots from your scalp. _Dragging you to the fucking window._ You've let go of where your teeth've latched into your target's ear to snarl like a rabid animal, and now you're being hauled off by the fucking hair. Like being thrown to the ground. _Getting kicked against the table._ Hands in your hair and the part of you left over from Bat City wants to go limp 'cause that's how you make sure it's over quick, that's how you know to make it easy on yourself.

But when the hell've you ever made things easy?

You kick out, you struggle, you fight it for every goddamned step of the way even when you can feel the hanks of your hair being _torn from your skull._

" - stop it! Stop!"

You hit the dust and roll and you're back on your feet with your knife in your hand, lunging forward, swiping it across skin. Silver flashes over a bared forearm and spots of red spatter the dirt.

_"Fuck!_ Little fuckin' _ghoul - "_

Think they can take you? Think they can fuck you up? Maybe, all right, but you'll fuck 'em up first, that's for _goddamned_ sure.

"I said to cut it out!"

Ha ha, you'll be _cutting it out_ all right. Cutting out their goddamn _hearts -_

Hand on your wrist, and you jerk around. Knife up. Fucker thinks he can take you? Fucker thinks he can grab you? You ain't going back and you're _armed,_ motherfucker. Another slash, an answering gasp, and - 

"Jesus, Monster, will you _stop?"_

Don't sound like him. It's -

It's GoGo clutching her arm, hot, fresh crimson leaking out between her fingers. Her goggles've slipped down over her eyes but there's a pained grimace in the lines of her face.

Shit.

_Shit._

You get half a second, maybe, where your eyes flick between GoGo and the motherfuckers who was just messing with her. One of them you recognize. You was latched onto the back of Pork Soda. The other - you dunno who the fuck they are or what the fuck they're doing here, only that they grabbed you by the goddamn hair to tug you off. They're orange hair and a pierced nose and a band of dark freckles across the olive-skinned bridge of their nose.

There's an out there, an obvious answer to why her agents're here and what they're doing, and you can _see_ the through-line of it. It's _there._ You could take it.

You _could_ but when the hell was that ever an option for you? Ain't like you _decide_ to tip yourself right over the fucking edge, far away from that backdoor as possible, but that's what has you baring your teeth in a ragged grin and brandishing your blade at Agent Pork Soda.

"The fuck're you doin', huh?" Your head's pounding. Got a stranger's blood in your teeth and you're still smiling. Must look pretty goddamn deranged, huh? 

Fuck, _c'mon._ Focus. _Pay attention, pay attention._

"Monster," says GoGo, quietly, still holding tight to her arm.

"No," you snap clean through whatever the _hell_ she was about to say next. _"No!_ They had you up against the _fucking wall."_

"We was just playing around, freak," says Pork Soda, smirking on back at you, tossing out the name GoGo's got for you as if he fucking _earned_ it.

Takes you several steps to realize you're charging for him again. GoGo catches you around the middle and you snap yourself outta her grip with a snarl that warps into a laugh partway through.

"You fuckin' touch me again, I'll - "

Jesus, no wonder nobody can take you seriously. The fuck is your problem, _laughing_ at every goddamn thing?

"I said we was just playing around." Pork Soda's shifted back a step and he's got his gun up, pointed at you. He ain't grinning no more.

"It was - yeah. We were fucking around, like he said," says GoGo. She's got one hand up, the palm out, and you can see the red greasing her fingertips. The fresh, oozing cut across her arm and - fuck. You did this. You fucking did this.

_What the fuck did you expect?_

"Didn't look like no fuckin' around to me," you fire back. The angle of your smile's starting to hurt, starting to cut deep as any fucking knife.

Had that coming, didn't you?

"We was having a misunderstanding." That's the tumbleweed to Soda's left speaking up. "Negotiations got dicey, but we weren't gonna...we're all good now, yeah?"

Don't recognize 'em. Don't fucking care. You need your fucking _gun._ God.

"Yeah." GoGo - she ain't looking at you. She's looking at the pair of them. The part of her face you can see's gone flat, expression evened out. "Yeah. We're good now."

"See?" The grin's back on Pork Soda's face. Gonna cave his nose in with your fist. Gonna put your knife into his _head,_ gonna sink it to the _hilt_ in his eye socket 'till the gray paste he calls a brain dribbles out the hole - 

There's that out again, and you don't fucking take it. You're surging forward, shuffling steps kicking up sand, and GoGo catches you on the wrist. Saw that coming. Saw that coming and you tear outta her grip.

"Fuck _you - "_

"I can see this is a bad time," says Soda.

"Little bit." GoGo don't look at him, you don't think. She's put herself between you and Soda and leaving you with your teeth bared at her, edged and _mean,_ with no clear shot at him.

_"Sale,"_ says Soda. "We'll talk to you soon. C'mon, Cee."

The fucking threat that is, the _"soon"_ he leaves tacked on the end there, slinks underneath your skin and hitches dirty claws under your jaw and you can feel it itching, simmering in your marrow. Then the two agents're moving away, Pork Soda holstering his raygun. Cee looks back over their shoulder but don't say nothing. You spit some of Soda's blood into the sand, taste it drooling down your chin. 

Monster.

Fuck-up.

You sliced up GoGo's arm, you fucked up one of her agents. She ain't gonna be happy with that shit, not with _that_ shit, and who could blame her? Who the hell could blame her? You can feel GoGo's eyes on you before she heads inside. Maybe she figures you'll follow.

Could run. You could fucking _run_ , split like you was always gonna, like you know you was gonna have to. Never let yourself get too fucking comfy in all this (you goddamn liar). Ready to split. Could _run -_

But your shit's inside the station.

Unless you wanna repeat of Bat City, you gotta head in after her.

Don't owe her shit. Don't owe her _shit._ You tramp in and you can still feel her eyes on you, see her yanking her goggles off over her face, her glare digging into you.

"What the hell're you playing at?" hisses GoGo, no fucking prefacing.

You don't answer her. You stare her down - easy, 'cause she's sitting down, so for once you get to be fucking _taller_ than somebody. You fold your arms and ignore the itch of your newest ink, the raw-red skin of your wrist rubbing up against the crook of your elbow.

Pretty damn sure she ain't looking for an answer. And two seconds later, hey, look at that. You're right.

"Those're my agents, Monster," says GoGo. _"My_ agents."

Should keep your damn mouth shut. That's what this means. Means you're supposed to sit the fuck out and wait for her to lay into you 'cause whatever the fuck you gotta say don't matter. You know how the fuck this goes. It don't fucking matter. None of it ever fucking matters, coming from you.

It ain't gonna _fucking matter._

"So - what? They get a free pass to fuck you up?" Shut up, god, just _shut the fuck up -_

"Do _you?"_ snaps GoGo, like you don't fucking already know that it's your fault she's bleeding, your fault that her arm's slashed up and leaking crimson all over the goddamn place. She's yanking a roll of bandage out from the box of shit that _you_ ripped outta Tommy's hand for her, for _her_ \- and what, now she fucking owes you? She don't fucking owe you. What the fuck's she _owe_ you for? 

Stop it, can it, _shut up,_ fucking _focus._

You don't got a good answer to that, 'cause the only answer you got's that you fucked up. You fucked up and you made shit so much worse than it had to be, 'cause that's what you fucking _do._ What'd she expect, huh? What'd she goddamn expect? What the hell'd _you_ expect?

"The hell were they doin', roughin' you up like that?"

"It was a misunderstanding," says GoGo, but she ain't meeting your eyes. She's winding a strip of gauze around the slash in her arm and she ain't looking at you. "I'm not jeopardizing this, you get that? I'm not putting the station at risk, and _neither should you."_

Getting real goddamn pointed, ain't she? Like you need the fucking reminder.

You did this. You did this.

Shut up, okay? You know. You know you fucking _did this,_ all right? You know.

"They was gonna kill you."

"As _if."_ GoGo looks at you now, her mouth twisting up.

"Sure as hell what it _looked_ like."

"Well, it _wasn't."_

"Yeah, okay." You can feel the laugh rolling up out from between your teeth. Can still taste another man's blood on them. Kinda itches the adrenaline in your veins. Mostly just kinda makes you wanna puke. "When those fuckers stop by and ghost you in another week I'll be sure to tell the airwaves that it were just a _misunderstanding."_

"They ain't gonna ghost me. They're _my_ slingas."

"Didn't seem real fuckin' happy with you, did they? What, you not paying 'em enough? They get sick of your shit?" Hell, maybe you can _relate._ You're getting sick of this shit, that's for goddamn sure.

"We were working through it."

"They were workin' you up against the _wall,_ sure - "

"Shut _up,_ freak," snaps GoGo. She stands abruptly. She's glowering. The end of the bandage trails, unwrapped. A dark patch is already spreading across the gauzy white.

You did this. You fucking did this.

Shut up. Shut up. You _know._

You could shut up. Could quit while you're ahead. That's a fucking joke. That ain't you. You dunno when the fuck to _quit,_ never have.

_Don't talk back to me._

You're laughing, head thrown back.

"Or _what?"_ She gonna ground you? Gonna chuck you out the window, smear your brain on the street? You stalk at her, shouldering into her personal space. She don't back down so you keep going 'till you're standing almost nose to nose, grinning wide with a spark in your pitch-dark eyes. Eyes like your old man's. Figured you'd grow up to be just like him, huh? Fucking figures. Thanks for _that -_

"Back off," says GoGo.

You shove her, one hand planted at her shoulder. She staggers back, hip bumping into the desk, and she jerks like she been burned. Next minute, she's righting herself, chin tipped up, eyes cold.

"I said _back off, Monster!"_

_Little fuckin' ghoul -_

You shove her again. She shoves you back. You laugh, high and strained, and then you're flinging yourself at her, bright and wild and your blood fucking _singing_ 'cause this, _this_ is exactly what the fuck you was waiting for. Knew it, didn't you? Fucking _called_ it, didn't you? She was just waiting for this shit, bottling up all the things she never said to your face and waiting for the right moment to fling 'em right the fuck back at you! Well not _fucking_ happening, all right? You're gonna sink the knife in _first,_ before she gets the chance to pull one up on you - !

Her elbow clips you under the chin and your vision blotches static, white on black. Your temple collides with the desk when you go down. Your teeth vibrate in your gums. Ears go bright with white noise like a bomb just gone off at your eardrum.

"Shit - "

Now there's hands on your shoulders, grabbing for your arms - _fuck off!_ You flip over, backhand the bastard across the face. _You're not fucking going back._ There's a reflexive shout, now fingers on your wrist. _Go to your fucking room._ Gonna _break_ them. Gonna snap those bones like _matchsticks,_ gonna bust off his fucking _kneecaps,_ gonna tear his goddamn _throat out_.

"Get th'fuck _off."_ The words slur together when you kick him off, only he's way tinier than he should be and - right, it's GoGo who goes crashing back against her desk, wincing, and you're rolling to your feet and spraying blood on the floor with every other breath. For half a second she stares at you and that's when you see the look you been waiting for. Same look you seen on your dad's face. Same look you seen on Tommy Chow Mein's, on Reverb's, on Demon Daze's. Same look that crops up on everybody when they look at you, when they peel back all the sick fucking layers of what you are and get a real good gander at the stain beneath.

Knew it'd happen. You were expecting it. This is why you packed your shit ahead of time, see?

Just took her a little longer than most.

The sound curdling up outta your throat's the same grating sound it always is. Sick, giggling little _fuck,_ little _freak,_ little _bastard,_ laughing at shit that ain't funny and never _been_ funny but goddamn you can feel the heat welling up in your eyes and you wanna cram your fist in your goddamn mouth and choke it out, wanna wrap your hands around your neck and squeeze until the bone _pops_ until the air _stops_ until your lips go blue and you don't have to stand here watching yourself pour gasoline into your hair and strike the match and burn down the only good thing you ever -

"Fuck you, Monster," says GoGo. The words are ice layered over nitroglycerin.

They got nothing on the blaze in your chest.

You laugh louder, you laugh 'till it _hurts._

When you shove past her and into the shed, you're still laughing. 

When you grab your shit and hurtle out into the dust, you're laughing so hard you can barely breathe.

**\--**

**we unmake ourselves, brick by brick.  
Rome's armies are retreating,  
unnatural for a city built on war.**

**\--**

Takes maybe a week before you run into somebody willing to give you a lift. It's a long walk from GoGo's station to anywhere else in the Zones worth going which is, as you always kinda known, right smack in the middle of nowhere. Going anywhere on foot from the station's no fucking joke. You figure GoGo's sold on you turning right the fuck around and heading back once you figure you're gonna starve or dry out.

Yeah well, they can keep hoping for that. Maybe they'll find your parched corpse in a couple weeks. Then they can shrug and get back to chatting up their _real_ friends, those agents and slingas who've got their _back._ Don't need you. Never did.

Ain't your business. Not anymore.

Just keep walking, freak. _Don't think that -_

You've got no radio, so all you got's the portable transmitter you fixed up to orient you. The only signals with any strength're GoGo's, so you figure out where you wanna go based on their diminishing strength.

Eventually you find a fridge set up in the sands, this weird fucking bastion of cool energy with water shut up inside it. Ain't a vending machine, and far as you can tell, it's got no coin slots or nothing. Got no power cables either. No idea how it's running out here, who put it out here, why it's _stuck_ in the sand like this. There's all sorts of shit stuck up onto it - magnets and scraps of colored paper and notes. You're too buzzed up outta your mind with heat exhaustion to give a damn about what any of them mean.

Couple sniffs and a few sips of the fridge contents prove that the water ain't gone bad or poisoned or nothing like that, so you chalk it up to one of those Zone things that's probably got an answer buried around somewhere, if only someone were still alive to remember it. Could always ask GoGo - 

You choke down the rest of the water 'till the chill makes your teeth hurt. Might be better off waiting around here for a lift. Far as you can tell, it's the only goddamn landmark for miles.

You don't gotta wait long. A band of Zone-rats motor by to pick up water. They got no clue what the fridge's deal is but they know it as a kinda oasis the way a lotta killjoys out here apparently do. More importantly they're willing to give you a ride as long as it ain't outta their way. You ask them to drop you at the Cemetery Window, and it ain't outta their way.

"Thanks," you whisper to your beads when they let you off outside the Window. 

Don't got much in the way of luck, so you're gonna appreciate the hell out of it when it happens.

Got no plan over where to go and what you the hell you're doing but you got _enough_ of a plan to know that the Window's your first stop. You slap a fistful of carbons on the counter and tell Kerosene you need a six-pack of Lighter Fluid. They raise an eyebrow at you.

Right. Fucking...languages, huh?

You gotta screw your eyes shut, drive a goddamn spike through the tumor of memories you been doing your best to ignore. The way GoGo orders drinks at the Window. The unfamiliar sounds that you ain't never said aloud before.

Your attempt at Cantonese is evidently passable enough for Kerosene to sigh and load you up with that six-pack. That, or they recognize you. Or you had more than enough carbons to cover a hefty tip, and they're willing to look the other way 'cause of it. Honestly there's a lotta options but you don't give a shit which one it is. What matters is you got your booze and you can head out.

"Crank up that station, will ya?" A big motor rat by the door pipes up while you're stacking your bottles into your bag. The Window ain't packed at this time of day, when the sun's at its peak - you know from experience that the place only really gets packed once the sun goes down - but there's a fair number of patrons mingling. The air's thick and stuffy and sluggish. You also know that Zone-rats tossing back liquor in the middle of the day make for cranky drunks.

This one ain't any exception. You wanna get outta this joint, and they're standing up to block your way with a toothy grin.

"What's in the bag?"

You'd draw your gun, 'cept you know that Kerosene'll kick anybody out if they start shit in the place. "Nunya."

The burner looms.

"Hey. Turbo. _Cool it."_ That's a dust angel also sat by the door, hair stood up straight in jagged spikes of platinum blonde. To you, they offer, "ignore him. He thinks he's hot shit when he's drunk."

"Fuck _you,"_ says Turbo in the vague direction of his pal. "I wanna see what's in your _bag,_ tumbleweed."

_"Kuso kurae,_ asswipe."

You try to shoulder on past, but Turbo's got a lotta height on you. Most people do. He makes a grab for your arm. You shuffle back so he misses but that don't put him off.

"Turbo," says Blondie at the table. "I said _cool it._ This kid ain't your business."

"Fuck you," says Turbo, but it don't sound directed to anybody in particular. The words're slurred together. Now he's lurching at you again. "Listen, _freak - "_

He don't catch your flinch, the muscle tic that jolts at your back. He keeps bulling forward.

"Y'wanna know how it works out here? The _real_ crash queens take whatever the fuck they want, and little shits like you stand back and let it happen, all right?"

_Listen, freak._

He makes a swipe for you. You got a bag full of real breakable bottles so you don't fuck around, all right? You don't fuck around, even if this asshole ain't shutting up and he's spilling pointless shit for no goddamn reason, but that's kinda how things _are_ when it's you. You walk into a room and whoever the fuck's around's gonna have a reason to pick a bone with you. Got one of those faces, don't you? You duck his swing. Turbo wobbles, almost overbalances.

"Lemme teach you how it _works - "_ His hand catches your arm, _twists._ Bastard moves _quick_ for a guy sloshed as he is, but now you got a meaty hand vised around your forearm, squeezing tighter and tighter and _tighter_ and _listen freak, listen freak, listen FREAK -_

Listen, _freak,_ the sound of breaking glass is what snaps you back into reality a second after you register what the hell you just did, which was grab a bottle from some burner's table and smash it over Turbo's head. He staggers back, lets you go, blinking blood and powdered glass outta his face.

You still got the jagged edges of the broken bottle in hand, so you brandish it at him with your lips drawn back over your crooked-ass smile.

"Back off."

"Little _bitch - "_ Turbo lunges. You _jab_ the fucking thing into his chest with a low _squelch_ and a strangled yell from the bastard as he crashes forward.

"Turbo! _¿Qué diablos estás haciendo?"_ Blondie at the table's up on their feet. Fucking took 'em long enough, didn't it? 

"...bastard," Turbo manages from the fucking ground. You can see the big lug trying to push himself up so you make sure to stamp on his fingers while he's still horizontal. Right away he roars like you just _shot_ him, like some fucking drama queen.

"Hey!" Now Blondie's pitching forward, one hand on the gun at their hip. _Now_ they step up? Like this asshole didn't have it coming.

You dodge away when they come at you, hand leaping for your raygun, and - 

_Bang._

You jump. It's like a bomb gone off, like a grenade pitched too close to your ears. It sets them ringing, vibrates the beds of your teeth. You feel the flinch in your bones after it happens, feel yourself bumping up against the wall.

Kerosene's got something out, pointed up. It's - it looks like a raygun, but all kinds of _wrong._ It's too gray, too small. Shiny and dark. There's smoke winding away from its muzzle, the air sour with a scent sharper than gasoline.

They point the thing at you, then at Turbo, still picking himself up off the floor.

"Out," says Kerosene. 

You, uh. You never heard them speak before.

That don't shut you up for long. Like anything could.

"Hey, he started it!"

Kerosene looks at you.

"Out," they say again. "Don't come back alone."

Oh, what? They think it was _GoGo_ keeping you from fucking with everybody here? 

Know what?

Fine. Okay.

Guess you can't fucking complain, huh?

Can't resist aiming one last kick at Turbo's shins when you shuffle outta there.

"Whatever," you singsong back at Kerosene when you nudge the door open. You can feel every set of eyes in the joint on you, mostly 'cause you're the only one still talking. "Thanks for the booze, dipshit."

You wait for another _bang_ or for the inevitable chirp of a laser blast at your back, 'cause you just done the stupidest thing you can think of, which is turn your back of someone who's got a gun on you. You wait for it all to shut off to black. _C'mon, c'mon, that the best you can do?_ You're waiting for someone to take a shot at you 'cause you painted a fucking target on the back of your _skull_.

It don't come.

The door swings shut and you're alone in the heat with a bag full of the strongest liquor in the Zones and a bruise in the shape of a hand on your arm.

At least one of those things ain't new.

And bruises don't stand out when your arms is covered in ink.

**\--**

**this is easy for us,  
too easy.**

**\--**

If you knew some other burner with a working tattoo gun, you'd head there instead. You ain't been to the High Stakes House in a while, and the last time you was there you swiped some ink from Pressure Point. Got no clue if they remember you or not, or know if it was you who stole that shit, but that's why you made a whole point of stopping by the Window. The Lighter Fluid's your insurance plan.

_Pay 'em in enough booze and they'll ink anything._

If Pressure makes the connection between you and some missing ink a year or so back, they don't say shit about it. You thump the six-pack in front of them and ask them if they ever had a taste of real Lighter Fluid. One bottle in, and that sets you up for some damn good service. You got these plans for a couple fresh designs but you need somebody with a real tattoo gun to do 'em for you.

The first one goes on your neck. It ain't anything complicated. It's a roll of ribbon unfurling down the left side of it, running from a little ways under your jaw to just above the collarbone. _Straight through to hell,_ it says. _'Till the morning come._ Second ink you ever got was a set of gears and by now the black's gone faded, laid up against your ribcage. You might as well get something new, something that makes your love for the Mad Gear and Missile Kid real obvious.

The next one goes on the outside of your left forearm, stretching from the tangle of Destroya's machinery that runs to your elbow and ending right over the imprint of the beads you done on your wrist. This one's of the eye you seen on the side of one of those Witch mailboxes, done up in miniature, dark streaks of blue and yellow running out from underneath. You was on the fence about it 'till Pressure says they got some new color they didn't have when you was by last, and that settles the issue right then and there. You want as much color stabbed into your skin as possible. You wanna be a neon billboard for the stuff. Pressure's in a real good mood after you give them that liquor too, 'cause they touch up the _BOOM_ on the back of your hand, layer it up with orange and yellow and red.

You got a shadow of the Witch's beads on your wrist along with the real thing, and now you got Her eye on your arm too. Maybe She ain't looking out for you, but you got one whole arm committed to Her and Destroya, and that ain't nothing. Feels all right.

You had this two-step plan. Get to the Window then get to the House and now that you done that you got nowhere to go and no plan for where to be. It were easy to make those plans without being tied down to the station, but where the fuck do you go from there? The new shades're still drying on your arm when a couple of burners slip into the House and something drops in your gut when you recognize them. Hell.

Should've seen this coming. The inner Zones, the ones closest to the city - that'd be where all of GoGo's fucking agents go, wouldn't it? At the head's Agent MT, and behind him - you dunno the tumbleweed's name, except you're pretty sure Soda called them "Cee." Whatever that stands for.

Got no clue if either of them'll recognize you but after everything, that really a risk you wanna run right now? Maybe you should make a bet over how many of your old haunts you can get kicked out of for picking fights with the other patrons. Pity you don't got any friends to take you up on that.

"Hey," says MT, stepping forward to stare at you. You're assuming he's staring at you. Kinda hard to say with his sunglasses on, but you can feel his eyes on you. "Do I know you?"

You say anything aloud, that'll make it real damn apparent real damn quick that he does, in fact, _know you,_ so you duck your head and don't answer.

"Hey." That don't put him off. His hand settles on your shoulder, and you snap to life, vise one hand around his neck, squeeze it 'till his eyes bug out behind his shades, crush his windpipe and dig your fingers into the skin 'till you feel the nails sinking into his flesh and anchor there hard enough to rip it out.

The real you hunches your shoulders and mutters at him to fuck off.

"I said _hey."_ The grip on your shoulder tightens.

"Fuck _off."_

You stand abruptly, shrugging his hand off.

"I _do_ know you," he says. "You're GoGo's - "

You slam an elbow into his gut, doubling him over, and bolt. You make it outta the House and into the cooling evening of Zone Two before someone crashes into you from behind and brings you down to the ground with a thud. You snarl, kick at them. They're trying to keep their hands on you but you're a slippery fuck, weaseling your way up and out. By the time you spin around to face them, you got your gun out and your teeth set in a crooked sneer.

It's Cee. You remember them from the orange hair. Like every one of GoGo's agents you seen, their skin's cratered with burn scars.

"You're that Monster," says Cee. "The one that bit Pork Soda's ear, like some kinda freak."

"What, you feelin' left out?" It comes so fucking easy. It always comes so fucking easy. "I can do you too, if you want!"

Cee lunges for you. You duck, bring your gun up - could fire two shots and end it all real fucking quick, turn their neck into a geyser of red. You're point-blank. Your aim ain't great but you can't fucking miss from this close.

But they're one of GoGo's.

That shouldn't freeze you up the way it does. You don't care. You _don't fucking care,_ all right? You don't - 

Cee hooks you across the jaw and your sight goes fuzzy. When the world quits spinning, your head's throbbing and you can feel blood pooling outta the corner of your mouth and into the sand underneath. It takes you a minute to register there's voices buzzing at your back.

" - don't care. You're on my turf, so you can take your vendettas somewhere else." Pressure Point.

"You got no clue who this kid is." That's MT now.

"And I'm wondering if I gotta dig the shit outta your ears so you _listen_ when I tell you I _don't care."_ Pressure Point again. "You got your business, and I got mine. Settle yours somewhere that ain't near mine."

Pressure Point don't usually gotta get so mouthy. Figures you'd warrant that kinda special fucking treatment. You catch a discontented grumble and the sound of feet stamping off into the dirt. You're on your hands and knees by the time Pressure reaches out, offers a hand to get you back onto your feet. You hock more blood into the dust.

You look up at Pressure Point, at the crease formed between their brows.

"You good? Lookin' pretty zero percent there."

You cough, feel the hitch in your lungs, and grin up at them.

"You fuckin' touch me, I'll bite your ear off."

Pressure withdraws the hand and straightens up.

"You're welcome," they say dryly, and they head back into the House.

Thank fuck. Don't need nobody wasting their pity on you, 'specially not now. What, they think you're stupid? They think you're gonna fall for it after this, after GoGo?

Shut up. Not thinking about that. Not thinking about GoGo.

You're back to trekking around on foot, at least 'till you can find somebody willing to give you a ride. Your plan hadn't gone that much further than getting your new ink. Aside from that, you got nothing except whatever the fuck you can do to stay alive. So you're back to scrapping around, stealing, digging through trash to keep yourself upright and moving from day to day, only now with the added bonus of keeping an eye out for any of GoGo's agents. You don't need them fucking with you, so you stick it out on your own. If you get caught on the wrong side of a couple wavies cranky after a couple days' worth of acid storming and get your ass beat 'cause you couldn't shut your goddamn mouth, well - that's on you. 

You gotta get outta the inner Zones. The drac patrols're thickest here, and once or twice, you swear to god you see a scarecrow leading them. Bald bastard, unsmiling, and capable of ghosting a dust angel at two hundred meters. You seen it happen. You seen the crow cut down a group of neon rubberburners and keep driving it were nothing.

So, new plan: stay the fuck outta that motherfucker's way. Get clear of the inner Zones. Watch your own back. You're done running with crews. You gotta steer clear of big groups to make that happen 'cause it's impossible to know if anybody's gonna land in your corner or not and given your track record you got no trouble guessing which one of those is most likely. 

The plan lasts all of a month or two - fuck if you know 'cause tracking the passage of time ain't much of a priority out here like this - before you're hiding out in a disused gas station that's probably dry of any fuel. You'd cased the place and it were empty, but sleep don't come easy (does it ever?) so you was prepared to spend the night trying to excavate the remains of any diesel that might still be in the tanks below ground.

A truck comes sputtering by, headlights slicing twin tracks through the dusk. You can tell by the music crashing out the open windows that it's a band of Zone-rats and not BLi, though the state of the car were a pretty clear indication of that already. More light floods outta the open doors as the burners spill out, chattering to one another as they go. You count the silhouettes - four total. You can't take four. Not unless you can uproot these gas tanks and find something to set alight. No chance of doing _that_ without tipping them all off. You're crouched behind the wall outside as the four of them file in. What little you pick up tells you that they're a band of killjoys looking to spend the night and they figured this place was deserted. They ain't all the way wrong there.

Best chance would be to run. Except they got that set of wheels there, and you been hauling ass on foot for weeks. The thing could have a kill-switch like GoGo's bike - 

You ain't thinking about GoGo. You're sprinting for the car and the fact that it's in rough shape's a good sign. It means that these chucklefucks probably dunno the first thing about auto maintenance so they dunno how to keep someone from jacking their shit. You ain't hotwired a car before but you're pretty sure you can figure it out once you get a good look at what needs doing.

Carjacking's kinda involved. You don't got any tools to get the steering column open so you settle for trying to twist the screws out with the tips of your fingers. That don't work so great. You try the tip of your knife and that works kinda better, even if you know you're fucking up the edge by using the damn thing like a screwdriver. The rest of it's a question of knowing where shit _is_ in the dark, and you mostly do. You run through the bundles of wiring, strip the insulation with your knife, and twist two ends together. Battery to ignition. Real simple. You keep the twined wires pinched shut under the cloth of your too-big shirt, look up and - bam. The dash lights're on and blinking. Fuck yes. Just gotta find the starter wire.

"What the hell?" Voices're getting closer. Fuck, c'mon, you just _got_ this thing running and already people're coming along to shit on your show? Sure. Why not. Seems pretty on brand for you, don't it?

_"- pendejo_ tryin' to make off with the car!"

C'mon, c'mon, _starter,_ where _is_ it - you can't rush this shit. Rush it and you're grabbing at live wires and that'll pass electricity through your heart and ha ha, maybe that actually wouldn't be such a _bad thing,_ huh?

Hands around the back of your shirt and you're yanked outta the car before you get a chance to go pawing around for the damn thing. They more or less sling you out and you hit the ground with a roll and tumble. Got used to rolling with the goddamn punches a long-ass time ago. You're back on your feet in a second and whipping out your gun. You get it up in time to get the barrels of two rayguns in your face.

"Christ, it's just a kid." It's too dark to see the exact shade of hair the first killjoy's boasting, but it looks almost greenish in the semidarkness. They gotta strong jaw, a sidecut that runs long down past their chin on one side. Right away, the nose of their gun dips.

"Kid who was gonna _steal our shit!"_ A rake-skinny tumbleweed with tufty hair that looks like it ain't been washed in weeks. Their gun don't lower, but their grip on it is two-handed and wavering. "The fuck would anybody want with a _carcacha_ like this one, anyway?"

Easy marks, if you were any good at that kinda thing. Too bad you ain't. You're only good at biting people's heads off and snapping your jaws at them like some kinda rabid thing.

"I was here first," you tell them. You bet your teeth gleam something fierce in the dark. The smaller one flinches.

"That don't give you a reason to steal our _car,"_ says the green-haired 'joy, sounding scornful. "Seriously, kid, what're you on?"

Oh, what're you on? The radiation from on high, showering down nonstop. Enough alcohol to make you fucking sick, sometimes. More nicotine than a kid your age should be breathing in, except you ran outta smokes a while back and you been biting your nails to compensate. That's not even addressing the possibility that you're just _crazy._ Just plain fucked up! Real goddamn likely, ain't it?

"The fuck - " Another killjoy rolls up to stand beside the first one and it takes you off guard just how much they look like each other. Twins, maybe? They look it. A big killjoy in black leather, hair shaved short, stamps up behind them and folds their arms with a scowl. "Little dick knew what they were doin'. The wire's all stripped."

What a fucking shame. Maybe they better shoot you now and get it all over with, huh?

"You a mechanic?" says one of the two identical fuckers.

"Sometimes," you say, 'cause that's the honest answer. If this is the third crew that lets you roll with them 'cause they figure you can fix their shit, you'll laugh your goddamn head off. That's a fucking fact.

"Oh, sometimes?"

What's this, an interrogation? You snicker. "Fuck you."

The big killjoy nudges the weedy burner, makes some sharp gestures with one hand. The other one sighs and answers in kind. You dunno what the fuck's going on with the two of them so you know what? That ain't your problem right now. 

Your biggest problem is the remaining two killjoys looking at you like they're trying to decide what to do with you. One of them steps forward and settles a hand on your shoulder. You can feel your smile sharpening up when you look at them, cutting harder into the corners of your cheeks. Wanna slap it off, claw it off, _strip the fucking skin_ away so that it all leaks rotten red and garbage into the sand -

"Tell you what," says the tumbleweed, the words even and bright. "Let's make a deal."

"Uh-huh?" Can't turn off the smile now that it's settled into your face. Can't do a thing but stare at that dark set of eyes that match your own.

"You fix what you broke, and we won't beat your ass when we brine out."

You gotta laugh at that one. Bet that must've sounded way more threatening in the burner's head, but you heard that shit way too many times for it to rattle you any. You almost double over as you stagger back, hand around your middle.

"Hey. _Hey."_ Oh, they sound frustrated. They sound _mad._ You can feel the laughter catching, hiccuping in the pit of your throat but you can't fucking _stop._

They lay you out into the dust with a crack of knuckles against your jaw. The skin goes white hot for a second before it eases into that dull ache that's so goddamn familiar. You know what fists on your flesh feels like. You was born knowing it. Grew up very fucking intimately acquainted with the sensation.

It's 'cause it's violence that it's a language you get, a language a kid like you speaks, the only language freaks like you understand. Your shoulders shudder a little when you bite the inside of your cheek to keep the mirth lidded in, zipped up and muzzled and packaged away like a rat in a cage. You shake the hair from your eyes as you roll to one side, peer up at the quartet of dust angels staring at you. Got the whole gamut of expressions you're used to getting: fear, uncertainty, frustration, disgust.

You bite harder 'till the iron tang of your blood warms the inside of your mouth. You ain't about to make this easy. Do you ever?

"Why don't you beat my ass anyway?" you tell 'em all cheery. "Sure sounds like you want to!"

Never could shut the fuck up, could you? That nets you a boot to the gut like you kinda knew it would. You wasn't lying when you said you knew violence better than anybody. You was born with fists on your ribs and blood in your laughter.

Trying to jack a car from a band of killjoys and then mouthing off to them ain't the worst way to meet somebody.

It's how you meet the Roadside Attractions.

**\--**

**it will frighten you how easy it is;  
you will want it and you will be fearful**

**\--**

The big-ass killjoy with the shaved head's a starshine named Hardship, and he's the one that the others decide is best for the job if they wanna get you to put the car back together. He might be a solid wall of russet-tinted meat and muscle but he's the one that figures out that hitting you just earns him smart remarks and that if he wants you to do something he's gotta make it worth your while. Beating your ass don't count. Raygun to the head don't count neither - you could do that yourself any day of the week, incinerate your brain with a _zap_ and solve everybody's damn problems. Eventually you take pity on the poor motherfuck and tell him you'll fix up the car if the Attractions give you a ride to wherever you're headed next, mostly 'cause you done this for two crews already so what's one more? You're ready to hit the red line as soon as any of them start giving you shit.

The issue with that surrender's that Hardship don't get it when you say it at first. One of his buddies has gotta translate, making signs with their hands that he gets. You didn't fucking realize this at first, but Hardship's deaf. The skinny killjoy with the bad hair has to ferry words between you, 'cause Hardship can only kinda read lips and when your hair's all in your face he can't read much.

The skinny kid who does the talking between you and him's called Gunshy, and it ain't hard to see why. Ey's a ringshine with skin the color of old wheat and ey's got this perpetual tremor to eir hands, worse than you or any other city undergrad you've met, and there's this tic that shivers eir right eye in its socket. Eir hair's streaked dirty with old dye, blackish where the roots've started to come in. Ey can't hold a gun straight to save eir life. Ey stammer constantly. You gotta wonder how the fuck the tumbleweed's lasted out here this long, or why this crew keeps em around. Clearly it ain't for eir deft handiwork. Your hands might have the shudders that come from too many of the city meds too early in life, but you don't got them so bad that you can't do the work you need to do to keep a car running. You pump yourself with enough nicotine and you barely get the shakes at all.

You're gonna make this short, you tell yourself. You're gonna make this real short. You're bailing first. You ain't sticking around long enough for any of these fucks to change their minds about you. Not again. It's obvious none of them like you, which is a damn good start. Means you got no incentive to try sticking around.

Hardship drives. Gunshy rides shotgun.

You get stuck in the back with the last two members of the gang, a pair of earthshines who look damn near interchangeable, right down to the color of their hair. If they looked way too alike in the dark, it's downright uncanny in the daylight. They sport identical shocks of lime green, shaved short on one side and sprouting out long down another. They're mixed the way almost everybody out here is but some shit manages to jump out at you: pale skin tanned by the unrelenting UV rays, almond-shaped eyes, narrow noses. They introduce themselves as Carbon Copy and Dead Ringer - _funny_ couple of bastards, ain't they? - and it's an obvious fucking gimmick. Makes a good strategy maybe, but when you're sitting this close to them, you get a good chance to pick apart all the tiny differences. Carbon's got a mole just above her left cheekbone. Ringer tends to tuck her hair behind her ear.

"You got a name?" one of them asks.

You been thinking about the answer to that question, 'cause you was _Monster_ in the Lobby and then in two crews' worth of zonerunners and then at GoGo's station. By now you know there's at least a couple rats that know your name that don't ever wanna fucking see you again. The first crew that picked you up, maybe they wouldn't recognize you now since you ain't the preteen in a stolen drac jacket and short hair that you was in the Lobby. The Sharks would. GoGo's agents definitely would. Hell, two of them already _have._

"Nah," you tell 'em both.

Zone-rats who ain't worked out a name yet ain't so weird out here. Plenty of crash kids're still figuring themselves out. Nobody's the same person they was in the Battery. That person dies once you cross the city line, gets born again in the heat and dust and radiation.

Gonna need more than a change in your name. You ain't never had to hide from BL/ind the same way a lotta other killjoys do. You was never important enough for that, to warrant shielding your face behind a mask but now you're gonna need one. Your hair's been growing out in thick, unruly shocks for months now and ordinarily you'd chop it all short 'cause it's starting to get to the point where it's getting pretty goddamn unwieldy.

You ain't the kid that you was in the city. You ain't the kid that climbed outta the walls with a smoking raygun in one hand neither. You still got that gun. It's the only one you've carried with you. Only one you've ever needed.

That kid got his ass beat for growing his hair out like a fucking girl. That kid was a pain in the ass to damn near everybody he met. That kid got himself conned by Tommy Chow Mein and had to make his own way out past the city line.

That kid ain't never coming back.

"Aw," says Ringer with a syrupy sympathy that makes your teeth ache. "We'll find you something."

"Eat me," you tell her. Carbon shrills out a laugh. You're pretty sure they've pegged you as some kinda fresh new undergrad. Guess you can't blame 'em for that. You got nothing about you that screams _killjoy._ Clothes too big for you, raygun still a blistering and unpainted white, don't even got a mask to hide your face.

"I like this kid," she says. "He's got _bite."_

You don't bite her to prove that she's right about that but it's kind of a near thing.

You ain't sticking around for long. You ain't sticking around long enough for them to decide how they're gonna get rid of you.

**\--**

**and that fear will make you want it more,  
because we have none.**

**\--**

The fucking problem is that Tommy Chow Mein might not be the only supplier in the Zones but he's one of the biggest and he can get his hands on just about anything. Most people who deal shit in the Zones deal through him in some way or another. Fucking figures you'd end up on the personal shitlist of the Zones' biggest seller. Know better than to try your luck with him again, to act like you'd be allowed in any of his storefronts. Means you gotta stick to petty theft and anybody who ain't in Tommy's pipeline. The problem's that you need a mask, 'cause you don't need people remembering you was the Monster that helped GoGo set up her transmissions, and you might be an irredeemable piece of shit but you ain't so far gone that you'll go grabbing at other people's masks, picking up _their_ souls and wearing them on your face.

Much as you're ready to up and ditch this outfit as soon as you've put all the bits of the car in place, you can't just yet. You need them as cover. They don't _know_ that you need them, and you're gonna try and keep it that way as long as possible. How long's it gonna take before they wise to that and ditch you? You can't stay at their mercy forever. They look at you with this mix of pity and curiosity, like they got you all figured out and wanna know where you're going from there. Sooner or later it's gonna give. It's gonna fall through and then you'll be fucked.

You need them and you're gonna use that and then you'll get the fuck out. For once, they don't keep you around 'cause you're handy. They keep you around 'cause they feel _bad_ for you. Or 'cause they feel bad for the kid they think you are.

The Attractions don't think nothing of it when you say you're gonna keep watch instead of heading into Chow Mein's with the rest of them when they stop by one of his storefronts. They ask you if you need anything and you tell 'em to bring you back a mask and you spot them the c's for it.

They bring back a plain white thing, domino-style, blank but for the green dashes up and below its eyeholes. It ain't much but it'll keep people from picking you out real quick. It's like your gun - bleached and white and in need of some real _color_ slathered over it. You borrow some paint off Carbon Copy, who wears a mask that's a darker green than her hair, and you lay careful coats over the thing when you can't sleep. Leave just enough white to remind you where it came from. It's one less thing that picks you out as a Monster and someone that too many people in the Zones knew to avoid. Might not be a bad idea to dye your hair neither. Not something distinctive and radioactive, like Carbon or Ringer, but something that'll make you harder to recognize you at a glance.

Your hair's growing out. You're gonna make sure it keeps growing.

Week later, the Attractions run into a band of draculoids and Hardship goes fucking apeshit on them. You get ready to shoot up a couple, but Gunshy grabs your arm and you manage not to put your fist through eir face with ey shake eir head furiously.

"Yeah, you don't wanna do that," mutters Carbon Copy, hunching down in her spot in the backseat beside you and slipping on a pair of aviators. "Hardship can take care of 'em."

"There's like six of them out there." The difference between this and the life with the Demon-Sharks is a violence in and of itself. It's a hand to your throat, the need to do something instead of _sit here_ parked in a car waiting for the chirp of a raygun blast to burn a hole in Hardship's head.

"And he can take care of 'em," says Dead Ringer. "Trust us, _compadre._ He knows what the fuck he's doing."

It ain't 'till after the four of you pile outta the car to stare at the steaming carnage of six slaughtered draculoids that you get the full picture. Gunshy tells you Hardship was in the Analogs. High-density mortar fire at close impact fried his hearing, deafened him to the point where he can't hear much of anything anymore. The Analogs left him alive but they left him with ruptured eardrums and a deep-seated need to rip apart anyone that takes a BLi paycheck.

"I dunno how he knows how to sign," says Gunshy, shoulder to shoulder with you while the pair of you gut the drac corpses for anything worth taking back. "But he taught us how to use it. He'll teach you too, if you're gonna run with us."

_If you're gonna run with us._ You know better than to say that you're gonna do a thing like that. You're gonna split with them, soon as you can, only it's been maybe a week and you ain't done that yet. You got no reason to stick around. No reason, except the obvious - that you dunno how feasible survival out in the Zones is gonna get when Tommy Chow Mein hates you bad as he does. You need to get your shit together enough for nobody to pick you out as the Monster you was, and then you can be outta this crew. Outta this life.

You need time to sort that out. This gang's content to assume you're a Bat Rat fresh outta the city and in desperate need of some older 'joys to take 'em under their wing and show 'em what's what. You figure they're older than you. Gunshy's the closest to you in age; you had to guess, you'd say ey're somewhere in the ballpark of fifteen or sixteen. The rest seem older than that. Might just be that they're all _bigger._ Point is, they all assume you're a kid still getting their footing so you got nothing to lose from going ahead and letting them all believe that, so long as they don't figure out the truth of it.

Some of them get pretty close.

"How's a city undergrad like you know cars, anyway?" Ringer asks you this while you're rooting around in an old auto wreck Hardship spotted on the side of the road, scrapping it for parts.

You don't got long to think of a real answer to that. You grab the first thing you come up with.

"My dad worked on 'em," you say it like it don't spawn a sour clench in the pit of your gut. "Back in Bat City. Worked on all those fancy-ass BL/ind floating cars."

_"¿En serio?_ Must've been pretty high up," says Ringer.

"Eh." You shrug as much as you can with you elbows-deep in a busted-up engine. "He was all right. Didn't like me working on his shit so I had to do it while no one was watchin'."

You're kinda getting attached to this imaginary dad of yours. Bet he weren't nearly as shit as the one you actually had, huh? Bet he did normal dad stuff, like, oh, you dunno, giving a damn about his fucking kid. This guy's only existed for about ten seconds in your head and already he's a better dad the one you got stuck with.

"You must learn quick."

You stop clanking around in a dead engine's innards and squint at her.

"Yeah? What's it t'you?" You're snarling. Dunno when that happened, but hey. Better to be on the defensive.

"Uh - " Ringer blinks, holds up her hands with her palms out. "Just curious, bud - "

"I ain't your _bud."_ You snap it out before you can figure that maybe, _maybe_ the guy you're pretending to be wouldn't _say_ a thing like that, huh? Maybe they'd be quieter and less rough around the edges. Probably wouldn't bite off someone's head for assuming a kinda familiarity with you that they ain't really _earned._

"Jesus, sorry, man," says Ringer while she gets to her feet. "Forget I said anything."

They whisper about you. You know they do. They talk about you. This has gotta be a fucking first - you being noteworthy enough to be _talked_ about. What the hell're they saying, huh? What're they saying that they won't say to your face? You watch Hardship chat with Carbon Copy, their hands both moving in quick flurries of motion. You watch it close enough to start to pick up on the little things, on what certain configurations mean and what you think specific signs could point to. You don't ask Hardship to teach you how to speak with your hands but you start picking up the broad strokes of it anyway. You gotta good brain for that. You're better at picking up the way things look than the way things sound; it's why you can figure out what the shapes of hands mean quicker than you could the strains of Spanish that everybody speaks out in the Zones. You can hold things in your head once you see them, picture them perfect. Makes it a real goddamn pain when you close your eyes and see the things you don't wanna remember - blood painting your bedroom floor, the husk of a dead droid with a laser punched through its eye, GoGo's head lolling limp to one side with a dark line running down her temple - but it don't all gotta be things you don't wanna remember.

You know the layout of an engine after looking at it once. You know the names of things because you read 'em in auto mags and the memories stick into you, cling to your head like lint to pockets.

Hardship gets kinda weird when you answer him with your hands the first time he directs a question to you without one of the others to translate. He watches what he says when you're nearby from then on out, but at least he chats with you one to one instead of needing a go-between.

He's the first person you know who's actually fought in the damn wars.

_What do you remember?_ you ask him once, when it's the two of you alone keeping watch for the night.

Hardship don't answer for a bit.

_The noise,_ he says at last. _The dying. Our leaders died one by one._ He says another thing you dunno. Takes him a minute to spell some of the words out for you, letter by letter.

Once he does, they stick with you.

_The sound a soul makes once it's put behind a mask._

You don't gotta ask what he means by that.

**\--**

**we become animals when the gods are  
looking elsewhere.**

**\--**

The Attractions don't raid drac parties like the Demon-Sharks did, but once they run into white suits, they converge fast, fuck 'em up hard and swift and leave their bodies steaming in the sand. A detour through Zone One takes you dangerously close to the city on the horizon, that curve of white sat cradled against the golden sweep of sand. The truck stands out 'cause it's rolling on its own with a couple motorbikes for company.

"That's a vendor truck," says Carbon, squinting through a busted set of binoculars. She's the crew's eyes since she's got the best ones, and also don't share her set of binoculars with nobody but her twin. "We get our hands on that, we're set for weeks."

That's all the information Hardship needs for him to steer the car right at the convoy. That, or the opportunity to ghost some more dracs. One of the two.

He runs over the first drac he sees and that stops the car dead since the cycle goes under the tires and jams everything for a second. The twins're already clamoring out the back and you're hot on their heels. You know what they mean by _vendor truck_ soon as you get close - it's a truck that's got this vending machine strapped to the top of it, BL/ind-manufacture. Probably got made somewhere else, en route to Battery City, but you dunno. Don't give a fuck neither. Always wanted another crack at those vending machines and a reason to peel one apart and take all that shit for free.

The clap's over quick. Always is when you got Hardship on your side; once he gets his hands on a drac, he don't stop 'till it's a twitching sack of meat and bone on the ground. You seen him snap necks like they're made of plywood, seen him dust dracs by punching laser blasts through their chests and frying their lungs. After that all you gotta do is get the machine down off the truck and then figure how to break it open.

"Let's just bust it," says Ringer. You're all crowded around the machine. None of them think to ask you, who's demonstrated that you got a real good grasp of machinery and shit, for help in this. That's fine. That's fucking fine. You got other shit you can mess with.

You clamber up into the truck's abandoned front seat while the others mess with the vending machine in the back and hey, look at that - the truck's tagged. Got this little white disc stuck to its dashboard, blinking slightly. Looks like the kinda thing that they'd punch into the clothes of Juvie Halls who needed constant monitoring, so the doctors and educators could know where they're at, minute to minute. It would've happened to you if you'd been sent back to Juvie again, no fucking question there. You pick the surveillance tag off the truck dashboard and turn it over in your hands. Feels magnetized or some shit, heavier than it looks for something a little bigger than a carbon.

'Long as this thing's on, you're pretty damn sure BL/ind can track you. Must be how they know where their merchandise is heading and where it's gonna end up. You dig around in your bag for a second, pick out your PTTP. You never click on the BLND freq for obvious goddamn reasons but you hit it now and squint at the screen. Ain't hard to figure out which of the BLND signals is the one you're looking for - it's the closest and the biggest. Ain't so hard to tap into it either.

GoGo said this shit were easily hackable. Didn't say the same thing for BLi, did they?

Shut up. You ain't thinking about that now.

Yeah. That's right. You're thinking about this BL/ind tracker and how easy it's gonna be to dismantle it and figure out how to rewire it on your own terms. Bet you could. Bet you could use it if you wanted to - 

"Hey, _¡vamos!"_ Carbon's stuck her head into the front seat of the truck where you parked yourself for the past ten minutes. "We can't get this thing open so we're gonna take it to somebody who'll..."

She trails off.

You look at her. Takes you a minute to realize why she's staring at you, at the thing in your hands, and -

"What're you doing?" says Carbon.

You cram the PTTP into your pocket too late.

"Nothin'."

"What're you doing with a BLi tracker?" says Carbon.

"I just told you, nothin'."

"You...you had a transmitter," says Carbon, her voice wobbling. "You were gonna...is that what you were doing? Calling BLi for _help?"_

"What?" You can feel yourself starting to laugh, feel the sick fucking grin curling up across your face. _"No."_

Too late.

Carbon retreats. You're scrambling outta the driver's seat half a second later, feet hitting the dust. Carbon's talking to Ringer, low and fast.

" - messing with one of those BLi tags. Had a transmitter - "

That's all you need to hear. Gotta run. Gotta fucking cut and run while you can. _Quit while you're ahead._ People don't believe you, not a piece of shit like you, so yeah, it's time to run and get the fuck outta here. You spin around and smack face-first into Hardship's barrel chest.

_Going somewhere?_ he says. He don't look all suspicious or nothing, 'cause he _wouldn't,_ 'cause he dunno what Ringer and Carbon're saying to each other so you got a tiny fucking window to do _something_ -

_Checking the back,_ you tell him, your hands a little clumsy, your signs a little slow, but as soon as he steps aside, fingers catch your wrist.

"Hold it," says Ringer, grip tight.

"What's going on?" That's Gunshy now, sticking eir head out from behind the white block of the vending machine.

"Caught him messing with one of those tracker things," says Carbon darkly, pinning you with a look.

"That ain't - " you start.

"You said it yourself you was a rich kid," says Ringer, looking shaken. "Brand new undergrad like you...that what this is? You some kinda new BLi spy? What, the dracs ain't enough?"

"That ain't what this is!"

"You come from some fancy district with a dad who worked on the city's floatin' cars and you say that ain't what this is?" says Carbon. Why the hell're you arguing? Maybe it's 'cause you been kicked outta crews for the obvious shit, but this? Look, if you're gonna get fucked up, it'd better be for shit that you actually _done._

"You dunno _shit_ about where I'm from!" But you can feel your grin chewing into the side of your cheek, and - fuck, c'mon, Jesus christ, nobody's gonna believe you when you're saying it like _that._

Gunshy signs something with eir hands, too quick for you to catch.

"Listen," you start.

Hardship grabs you and lifts you by the neck. His hand fits completely around the stalk of your throat, callused fingers pinching your windpipe shut.

"You spyin' on us?" Carbon asks, face twisted up and furious. "That what this was?"

You can't talk. You claw at Hardship's hand holding you in place but you can't fucking breathe and fuck, _fucking_ christ but this can't be the way you're going out - over a dumbass lie you told 'cause you was waiting for the right time to fuck off on your own terms. So instead of getting kicked out for being an insufferable little shit, you're gonna be _killed_ 'cause this crew's a bunch of paranoid bastards who think you're working for BLi. Fucking fantastic.

"Hey - hey!" Gunshy's tugging at Hardship's wrist now. "C'mon, he's just a kid!"

People keep saying that. _Just a kid._

GoGo was the only one who said it to you straight. _There aren't any kids in the Zones._

Low, gurgling sounds peel out from your throat.

"That _kid_ is giving away our position!" says Carbon. "Broadcasting it to BL/ind! Doing it right now!"

There's hands in your pockets. Hands digging out the portable transmitter, holding it up, and Hardship makes an indistinct noise and _throws_ you forward. You hit the ground in a skid and tumble. You get partway to your feet, look up, find yourself face to face with the tonelessly cheerful BL/ind logo mounted on the blank white vending machine. Loathing curls up like a live thing in your guts.

"Tapped into the BLND frequency," Ringer's saying to her twin. "Just like I told you."

"Fuck you," you gasp out to the pair of them. "You dunno _shit_ about - "

Hardship kicks you in the face. Your teeth snap together with an audible click from the force of it. You don't get any damn time before he's grabbing you by the front of your shirt and driving a fist into your nose. The bone _cracks_ loud and harsh and you laugh. You can taste the red dripping into your open mouth. They think you never had your nose broken before? They think you dunno what always happens next?

They already got their opinions all set in stone about you. You cough blood into the dirt and laugh until Hardship slams you against the vending machine.

You done this before too.

"C'mon," you grind out. Try to speak the words clear, so Hardship can read 'em on your lips. "Do it. Do me in! I fuckin' dare you - "

He cuts you short with a punch to the gut. Your puke's stained orange with blood when you retch up last night's dinner.

_Stop it,_ Gunshy's saying with eir hands. _Let's leave it. He's a kid._

Hardship don't respond to that. You can read hatred in the set of his features. Analog vet like him who's figured you're working for BLi? Yeah, you're fucked.

"He's a rich fuck who was gonna sell us out," says Carbon harshly. "He don't belong out here. We don't do him in now, he'll turn in some other bastard."

You claw for your gun but Hardship picks it outta your hands easy and flings it into the sand. Was kinda expecting that. You got your other hand digging into the lining of your jacket while he's busy disarming you, ripping out the only last resort you got.

"Back off," you say. The words're wheezing and quiet. You kinda gotta trust that the Attractions know what the fuck it is you're holding. Hardship would, though. He was in the Wars. He must've seen plenty of shit just like it.

Hardship's eyes zero in on the thing at once and you brace your thumb up against the pin.

"Back _off,_ motherfucker!" Your grin's ragged. "Or I blast us both!"

"Is that a - "

"That's a fucking grenade, Ringer!"

"Shit! Shit, everybody _move - "_

Hardship makes a grab for it.

You flick out the pin with the nail of your thumb.

Your smile's so wide it hurts.

"Better start runnin'."

Hardship lets you go. The Attractions're already running, yelling at each other to _move, move!_ You don't got much time. You drop it, throw yourself as far away from it as you can, and clamp your hands over your ears and wait.

There's a silence long enough for you to think that maybe you didn't fix the thing up as well as you should, and it were a dud and you got real damn lucky that the Roadside Attractions didn't have it in them to call your bluff. Then the grenade goes off with a _bang_ and the hiss of spitting circuits and wires when the explosion punches into the vending machinery.

Your ears're ringing. You uncurl and look up to the sound of a car motor spooling to life. Debris and dust powders your shoulders and your hair, hitting the ground slow.

You get up.

The Attractions're driving out. Leaving you behind.

You can feel the ghost of every fist from the past five minutes. Your nose feels broken. Your stomach feels like somebody run it over. You limp toward the vending machine 'cause you might've ruptured it all to hell, but there might still be something you can salvage.

The blast barely cracked the thing. Busted up the mechanisms pretty good, so now you can't get any shit out of it even if you felt like dishing any carbons in. Just your fucking luck there.

"Fuck you," you whisper to the stupid, happy BL/ind logo. Still remember the first day you spent out in the Zones. Got yourself thrown against a goddamn vending machine back then, too. Kinda like nothing's changed.

Nothing's changed.

Everything's changed.

You been through a lotta crews now. You've burned every goddamn bridge you been on. Got yourself on the shitlist of the biggest supplier in the Zones. Biggest deeds to your name are all the ones that ended in somebody getting fucked over. Most of the time it were you. Only most of the time.

"Fuck you," you tell the BL/ind face again. You got blood running down your throat. Just like the day you got out to the Zones, you look at your hands all flush with red, and you draw a big fucking "X" through the left eye. Draw a zigzag over its happy, open-mouthed smile, like you're stitching that motherfucker shut.

That'll teach you to smile, huh? You smile too goddamn much anyway. No wonder people don't trust you. No wonder the Roadside Attractions took one look at you messing with that shit and figured you was BL/ind.

You pick up whatever's left. Your bag's in the front seat of the truck where you left it, along with everything else you got inside it. Your PTTP's kinda glitched up, but you might be able to fix it, so you pack it away. Your gun's lying in the dust. Still works. Somebody left their sunglasses on the ground. Must've left them behind when they brined out, quick as anything. It's a pair of aviators - probably Carbon Copy's.

Yours now.

Got no place to go but forward from here. 

You pick a goddamn direction and you start walking.

**\--**

**an emptiness comes into  
our eyes, and everything goes quiet**

**\--**

You hit Zone Two after a couple days of trekking, 'cause nobody stops to give you a ride. You run into a couple wavies a few times but you keep a wide berth from the ones that stink-eye you, take shelter in old buildings with the ones that don't give a damn. People give waveheads a lotta shit. You been on the receiving end of waveheads who got bones to pick, and they're some of the scariest motherfuckers out here. GoGo's agents -

Whatever. Point is, you don't gotta worry about wavies as long as you stay outta their way. They don't bother you. They let you share their space during the cold-ass desert nights and acid storms if you don't cause trouble.

The first real grain of civilization you hit's one of Tommy's storefronts. It looks empty, like he ain't there, but there's a car parked outside and you're willing to bet the bastard's paid up some kinda security to watch the thing, make sure it don't go Costa Rica while he ain't in the area. It's the first place that might have something that'll keep you alive out here, so you know what? Tommy don't gotta know you're here. Better that he don't. But you've made a habit of fucking with Tommy Chow Mein every time you run into him, so what's one more?

You give it 'till nightfall before you creep in. The door's locked, but it ain't hard to get through that. It's a flimsy fucking lock. GoGo taught you -

Not the point.

The place is empty when you get in. Everything's quiet, powered down. Place might belong to Tommy, but he must not got real good _security_ if you can sneak the fuck in here without anybody raising no alarms. This ain't Bat City. Ain't no _alarms_ here, ain't no _cameras_ here, the place don't got _shit_ like that. Right?

Pretty sure you'd know if it did. It'd've all gone off by now or whatever.

Point is, Tommy ain't around so you ain't gonna pass up on a chance to wreck his shit. It ain't pitch dark but the dim lighting don't make it easy to figure out where everything is. You planned for this. Been waiting out here, eyes adjusting to the gloom while the day turned to night. You prowl along the shelves, pick up whatever you can take with you. Pack of cigarettes? Oh, don't mind if you _do._ A fresh lighter? Two? Hell yeah. A battered sticker book? Why the fuck not? One of the shelves is heavy with can after can of hair dye, some of it new but most of it looking battered and, uh, _gently used_ at the least. Most of them're bright colors, but those're also the ones that look the most spent. You linger at one at the very end. Pitch black. Like oil. Unopened, 'cause nobody wants to dye their hair black out here. Not when they wanna stand out like nothing else.

Your hair ain't black, even if at night it might as well be. The sun lights it up in reddened brown in the daylight, and you don't fucking care for that. Nobody dyes their hair black.

You grab the can of black off the shelf and add it to the rest, bundle it all up in some dark jacket you snatch off one of the hangers. Overdo for a new jacket anyway, 'cause yours got all torn the fuck up thanks to Hardship. You're still slinking along when you spy the register, the door shut behind it. Back room? Like hell you're gonna leave without making life that much harder for Tommy. The register's locked up tight but carrying that much sugar on you's gonna make you a target anyway. You scramble over the counter instead and start picking at the lock 'till you can get the door to swing open.

The back room's somehow more of a cluttered mess than the store itself. Jesus, don't Tommy ever _clean?_ You pick your way 'round four cardboard boxes stacked one on top the other, squeeze your way past a tower of busted metal crates. And here you figured a back room would have all the neat, _rare_ shit that Tommy don't wanna sell but you're gonna hand it to him right here: you wasn't expecting him to have an entire goddamn wall devoted to a shitton of newspaper clippings and whatever the fuck, all tacked on next to each other.

The fuck?

The nearest one's a generic news report, the kind that'd be printed on the papers in Bat City. You step around the junk lying on the floor, squinting at the neat lines of text taped up to the wall, barely visible in the dark.

> City decontamination efforts were successful in confirming all rumors regarding the terrorist known as _**THE PARANOID FRANKULOID**_ to be unfounded. There is no evidence to suggest that the Frankuloid, known Zone-wide for participation in criminal acts against B.L.I., has gone to ground within Battery City's walls. Nonetheless, city officials have issued an order that those who may have knowledge on the whereabouts of known criminals is to report them to the nearest Standard Services Department without delay.
> 
> **This is not a request.**

You lean closer. Some of the articles've got these big dark lines run through 'em, like somebody wanted to redact the text. You seen it all the time in Bat City, in the textbooks and shit, only these ones're all sloppy - like somebody scribbled the names out with a black pen or something. Biggest of all is the poster, frayed at the edges, creased like it were folded up and mashed into somebody's pocket. It's _massive,_ a huge red "X" slashed across a big face in grayscale. It's headed with one word:

## EXTERMINATE

The poster's in gray. Whoever's in it's wearing some kinda mask, some kinda _monster_ mask, big and rectangular, a fat line of fake stitching running along the forehead and down one eye.

## THE PARANOID FRANKULOID

**_WANTED FOR CRIMINAL CHARGES OF ARSON, THEFT, MANSLAUGHTER, DESTRUCTION OF PROPERTY,_ **

It looks like the list keeps going but the poster's been torn off at the bottom. You're already stepping closer, picking out a clipping from an issue of _MODERN EXTERMINATOR_. You recognize the style of article from the racks of magazines in the Zone gas stations.

  


# FRANUKLOID APPREHENDED

> Public celebrations are expected to take place today between 15:00 and 17:00 in appropriate areas to observe the confirmed arrest of ________ ______________, known to the Zones as _**THE PARANOID FRANKULOID.**_ As a prominent person of interest related to the so-called "killjoy" movement, it is expected that ______________'s arrest will result in a drastic reduction of further acts of terrorism against Battery City and pave the way for further work on the Zone High Speed Railway Project.
> 
> The heads of S/C/A/R/E/C/R/O/W confirmed that much of the credit of ______________'s detainment can be attributed to one of their top exterminators. Upon securing the prisoner, Scarecrow Fume issued the following statement (cont'd on page 6)

Your eyes flick to the date in the corner, looking like it was scribbled there by hand. _**MAR ?? 2009**_.

The whole-ass wall's like this. Every single one of them's got at least one mention of _the Paranoid Frankuloid_ , highlighted, circled, underlined, pasted up for what? For Tommy to gawk at? All the pictures of the guy show the same mask. In one full body shot he's wearing a set of large, blocky gloves, kinda like claws, kinda like - 

Kinda like your old monster hands.

Goddamn.

Those're your fucking _claws_. Those're the monster hands you had in the Lobby.

The bastard disappeared in Bat City, got _caught_ in Bat City, and - you found those hands in the Lobby. You found 'em when you was a kid.

You don't waste any more goddamn time. You start picking through the place, and pretty soon you find 'em - green and grimy and looking beaten all to hell, but you're goddamn _sure_ these're the ones. They still don't fit you. Way the hell too big. Could take them anyway. Could take them anyway just to rub it in Tommy's face even if you got no call to carry them around. Wouldn't do shit in the long run. You root around in the box where you found 'em, 'cause it ain't empty. There's a couple masks in there too. At first you figure they're draculoid masks - they feel like them and your arms prickle with goosebumps when you brush up against the rubbery texture. They ain't white though. Hard to tell in the light, but when you pull 'em out, you'd be willing to bet that they're blue or green or something like that.

They all look a lot, a whole hell of a lot, like the masked face on that _EXTERMINATE_ poster. So why the fuck does Tommy got a whole mess of them? There's at least four of these Frankuloid masks in this box alone, maybe more. Why the hell's Tommy care about this Frankuloid guy anyway? The bastard's dead, ain't he? That's what all the articles say. He's dead.

_Where'd you get those?_ Tommy, pale as shit, pointing at the arms you was wearing. _You shouldn't have those. They don't_ belong _to you._

They don't belong to him neither, now, do they?

_You don't even know where they came from!_

But he did. He knew back in the Lobby, didn't he?

You leave the arms. They ain't yours, and - 

It don't matter, all right?

But Tommy's got like, five of these Frankuloid masks so who's gonna stop you from taking one of the extras? Nobody. That's who. They look kinda like the monster face you got done on your ribcage, the first ink you ever got, back in the Lobby, forever ago.

There's a prickle like an electric charge on the beads tattooed 'round your wrist.

Don't got time for that right now.

You pick the sturdiest mask you can find. It's bicolored, green and purple, got these fake lines and wrinkles sunk into the plasticky rubber. It don't look as monster-y as the others, or all that much like the mask in the posters. Probably a cheap knockoff of the original. But it's the only one that ain't torn in some way, and it's got a filter built into it - you feel it when you run your fingers along the interior. High quality, like a draculoid mask, but without the sharp tingle of weird static that buzzes whenever your hands've run across a real drac mask. Won't need no other rebreather with this shit on. Good, 'cause you left the one GoGo gave you back at the station.

Tommy won't miss it. It ain't even the real thing.

You tug it on, pull it over your face.

Feels all right.

Feels good.

You got what you came for. Okay, so maybe you didn't, but you got something better.

You got a better _you_ than you had.

You slip out the door shut it behind you, and a beam of light cutting through the shelves nearly fucking blinds you.

"Who the fuck's there?" You dunno the voice, low and raspy and deep, but you duck behind the nearest shelf. "I saw you! I fuckin' saw you, _hijo de puta,_ come the fuck out!"

Well, shit.

Guess Tommy _does_ got security. You press yourself up against your cover. Your ears is shit. Too many things gone _boom_ nearby've fucked 'em up by now. Can't hear the footsteps, can't figure where they're coming from. Shit. Shit, shit, c'mon. The light - that's obvious. The bastard's got a flashlight or some shit. You watch the beam shine beneath the shelves, swinging back and forth.

"C'mon, _che cozz'?_ You comin' out, or am I gonna have to hunt you down?"

They're getting further away from the door. If you can get enough of a head start...

You're small. You can make it.

You tug at your new mask, making damn sure it's secure on your face. Breathe in, sharp and tight, crouching on the spot. Braced to go. _C'mon, c'mon._

The light swivels close, then away again.

"C'mon out, you little - _hey!"_

You bolt. You make for the door, crash through, tear out into the dust. Three bright _zats_ of laser fire shoot out after you, lighting up the night in bolts of green.

"Get back here, _¡cabrón!"_

You fling yourself flat when more plasma sizzles overhead. The scrub brush is thick in the area, hides you well. The beam of the flashlight burns closer, highlights the silhouette of some tumbleweed stomping through the dirt. They got some mask or something on their head, big and spiky, like it's got fur on it.

They stop a few paces from where you're splayed flat, barely breathing.

They swear under their breath.

"Jesus - _fongool,_ then! Don't lemme catch you back here, you hear me?"

You give it a minute. Then another.

You wait 'till you can hear the crunch and shuffle of the burner heading back. Wait 'till the distant swing and slam of the door means that they ain't keeping an eye out for you no more.

You give it another hour before you take off for real.

**\--**

**we are not the answer to an age old  
question, 'what does it mean to be human?'**

**\--**

Couple months ago, you was a Monster. You had arms full of ink and a Graffiti Bible and you slept in a shed full of glitched up radio gear. You figured how to tune into the right FMs and how to build bombs and how to make homemade fuel. You was a DJ runner. You left shit in dead drops.

That kid ain't around no more. That kid knows too many people. That kid got their ass beat by killjoys and waveheads and slingas and they got themselves kicked outta drinking joints 'cause people figured they could pick fights with them. They had a face too many folks remembered and a name too many shitheads knew.

So that kid ain't around no more.

You got this mask to hide your eyes and another one to hide your face and filter out the bad air in the Zones when BL/ind figures it wants to do some _decontamination_. You got dark lines laid into your hands and your neck and your arms. You got a raygun of white and green, painted up special after you got outta Chow Mein's. You got a stitched-mouth smile symbol to paint on the walls to match your hyena grin.

You was a Monster. 

You wasn't just a Monster.

You're _fuck off,_ you're _fuck you,_ you're _fongool._ You're a little bastard, a little prick, a goddamn annoyance. A goddamn beast. A fucking animal. A little _ghoul._

Might be a ghoul, but you're a _fun_ one. One that knows how to make shit go _boom._

You tip back your head and cackle at the fucking sun.

Still a monster at the end of the day.

Weren't never gonna be anything else.

**\--**

**we are another question entirely:  
'how does one learn to be less than?'**

**\--**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> > 1\. As always, you'll find a few references sprinkled throughout this chapter. The "Cemetery Window" joint has made an appearance in earlier works in this series; it, alongside the bartender "Kerosene" is a shoutout to the 2019 Red Vox album _Kerosene._ The character of "Pork Soda" is a reference to the Glass Animals track by the same name off their 2016 album, _How to Be a Human Being._ The line breaks feature two poems: "For those who narrowly escape disaster, or a love song for the end of the world," by Joey Potter, and "Inhuman" by Madeleine C. Neither are my own compositions.
>> 
>> 2\. I'm still not very good at drawing tattoos, but here's my best attempt at a rendition of Ghoul's [seventh](https://i.imgur.com/mSXEUnB.png) and [eighth](https://i.imgur.com/F952ZGw.png) tattoos, as well as the [ninth, tenth, and eleventh](https://i.imgur.com/zW7ysoJ.png). Once again, I feel like I should say that you really, really should not do your own tattooing work unless you know what you're doing, because Ghoul here certainly does not and some of those DIY tattoos definitely got infected during the course of this chapter. I know this is quarantine and we're all bored but sepsis is no joke.
>> 
>> 3\. This chapter also comes with a special thanks to Rufus, who was very patient and helpful with the more technical aspects of ham radio setups. I likely wouldn't have been nearly as happy with this chapter without her generous assistance.
>> 
>> 4\. Yes, I'm aware that the name "Fun Ghoul" did not, out of universe, come from Italian slang for "go fuck yourself." I do know that this was purely accidental on the writers' part. That being said, it fits Ghoul's character to a tee and in-universe, that is partially the reason that his name came to be the one it was.
> 
>   
> I mentioned this last time, but I made a [writing tumblr](https://graffitibible.tumblr.com/). It's not very exciting, but if you ever feel like sending me questions or just babbling about the Danger Days universe with me, feel free to poke me over there if you feel like it.
> 
> I swear I didn't set out to give myself big emotions about NewsAGoGo and Fun Ghoul having this familial big-sis-and-little-terror dynamic that inevitably ends in tears but I sure went ahead and did it anyway. For a relationship that doesn't really have a basis in canon and is at best _maybe_ vaguely implicit by transitive property it sure did hurt a lot to write. Truly I played myself. Truly I am Boo Boo the Fool :(


	4. i've always bitten the hand that feeds me (turns out it was god's, but that never mattered)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prior to reading the fourth part of this installment, please be advised of the following content warnings. First of all, you may assume that many of the warnings listed at the beginning of this work will remain in effect. In particular, the self-loathing, intrusive thoughts, traumatic flashbacking, and disordered thinking present in the narration all remain prevalent for much of this chapter. Themes of suicidal ideation remain recurrent in this section. The end features some strong themes of grief and loss. There are a few offhand references to self-harm. Several characters once again engage in underage drinking and smoking.
> 
> A few sections of this chapter also discuss addiction in vague terms, specifically as it pertains to waveheads in canon. General attitudes toward waveheads are not very accommodating of this addiction and the language used to express this sentiment is not always kind. There are several instances of canon-typical violence and injury, and a few sections that include needles and the stitching of said injuries. Some scenes feature the treating of severe burn injuries and infections, and though no physical descriptions are present throughout the treatment of said injuries, there are some very visceral character reactions to it.

**\--**

**after the birthing of bombs of forks and fear  
the frantic automatic weapons unleashed**

**\--**

There's these fridges out in the Zones. They got no hookup to any kinda power. No cables. No cords. Ain't attached to nothing. Who goddamn knows how the fuck they keep themselves cool and stocked all hours of the day. They sit on their own, decorated by a bunch of post-it notes and pictures and colorful bits of paper. There's always water in 'em. People can always fill their bottles and coolers with whatever's inside and far as you know, nobody refills these things or nothing like that.

You been camped out by this one for about two weeks now. There's a copse of Joshuas, gnarled and stooped, that do a good enough job of hiding you and keeping you in the shade while you wait and toast bugs and pick plants to keep yourself alive.

Ain't your fault. Got no other landmarks around and you been lying low for a while. Zonerunners pass along the area often, stop by for water and shit, and then motor out again. Pretty sure you're breaking some kinda taboo by camping out here the way you are, but it's temporary, all right? You're gonna be out and moving again, soon as you get yourself a set of wheels.

Speaking of wheels, there's a pair of them humming close now. There's a couple of brightly colored tumbleweeds on a motorbike, stopping by this oasis. That's more the fuck like it. You can run a cycle, no problem. 

You tug on your mask. Time to go.

**\--**

**the spray of bullets into a crowd holding hands  
that brute sky opening in a slate metal maw**

**\--**

A week after Tommy's, you found this fridge sitting on its own, looking kinda like the one you found a few miles from GoGo's. Like that one, there's a fundamental fucking impossibility to how it manages to run out here. No fucking idea who equips it, who built it, who stocks it, how it fucking functions. It's coated in scribbles of graffiti, tidbits of other people's lives. Gets plenty of traffic. The water's fresh and cool and clear but by unspoken rule nobody sticks around it for real long.

You used its contents to dye your hair black so that it now hangs, long and disheveled and inky, down the back of your neck and into your eyes.

Two weeks after Tommy's, you painted your domino mask, slashed it with a black "X" that cuts through the right eye using what were left of your tattoo ink. You dug through your pickings from his store shelves, peeled a couple stickers from that book of his and slapped 'em on your raygun 'cause you liked the look of 'em. Shapes of monsters and ghastly things - yeah. That's the kinda thing you wanna be. Hacked the overlong sleeves off your new jacket, turned it into more of a dark khaki vest. It's got this weird symbol on the back, pink-red and dust-stained and looking kinda like the sun burning down from the sky. Got a yellow patch on the front breast. You dunno what it means, any of it, but you like the look of it. It looks like something that somebody'd wear in a war and you been fighting every second of your life so it suits you fine. Shields you from the worst of the sun and it's another layer against the frigid night.

It's the first thing you've worn that you think you might actually kinda wanna keep after years of wearing old scraps taken off dead bodies and clothes you had to cut down to size. This one might be frayed and it might carry a meaning you dunno, but you like the feel of it. Figures it's the shit you picked off Tommy's clothes racks that really sticks to you. The fact that it were Tommy's and you stole it clean away from him makes it all the fucking sweeter.

You're gonna rub that shit in his face one day.

First, you're gonna need a set of wheels. 

You creep close to the pair of rubberburners at the fridge, approaching at an angle. They don't see you coming.

" - much do we need, do you know?" says one of them.

"Just enough to make it to Tommy's."

The word coils a pipeline of gasoline up in your guts. Your grip on your gun is tight. Might be able to nick the bike without either of them noticing, but history's taught you not to bank on that. Gonna have to make this quick. If they hit back first you'll be fucked.

A loud bark shatters your focus.

"Aw, c'mon, girl." One of the Zone-rats bends down and scratches something behind the ears. You've gotta strain in your hiding place to make it out, but you know what, you knew it the second you heard that _whuff_ of sound. Not a lotta motor rats out here've got pets. These ones're unique 'cause they actually got this dog right outta Bat City, by the look of it: black and tan, long muzzle, bristly hair...yeah, looks a hell of a lot like the ones you remember your dad bringing home.

Your boots grind against the dust as you shift into a crouch. Took these ones off a dead killjoy sheathed in a bodybag. Either you got lucky or you've managed to grow enough for ordinary people's clothes to not look freakishly big on you. Most likely the latter. You ain't real sure you're gonna grow much more, which is fucking fantastic for you 'cause you're like five-foot-something and people still don't take you seriously.

They do once you fuck them up. But these two rats've got a _dog_ and you ain't gonna fuck with a pair that's got a _dog._ 'Specially one from Bat City, which it's gotta be. No way it could've lasted out here if it weren't.

You don't fuck up dogs and you don't fuck up people who _have_ dogs. This weren't a policy you had in place before now but it kinda matters enough for you to decide that you do now.

So you watch the tumbleweeds fill up their water supply and pet their dog and get back on their bike and leave.

You slink back to the Joshuas and hunker down again.

Dumbass. Who knows when a better target than that'll be around?

Dumbass.

**\--**

**that swallows only the unsayable in each of us  
what's left? **

**\--**

The first real close call you have with a scarecrow happens a couple days later.

It's a fucked up dream that wakes you. Can't remember _shit_ about it once you're up but there's a patina of ghostly sweat stuck to your skin and slicking your hair to your forehead and you're shaking harder than you did when you first got off the goddamn pills. Got no fucking clue what it is about the dream that spooked you. A white face in the dark. Fire coursing through your barbed-wire veins. A voice that grated rusty like copper rubbed against tin.

You get up and breathe hard. Been camped out by this fucking fridge for weeks, using shreds of a repurposed bodybag to keep yourself warm, and you can't never remember something shaking you like that before. You're used to waking quick and violent, heart kickstarting in your skinny chest. The pall of unease usually tapers off once you wake up and remember: _you're not there anymore. He can't find you out here._ You'd remember if you dreamed about the things you always dream about - fingers in your hair, the cable of your spine dug into concrete. The bite of chain-link metal pressing waffle-iron patterns into your skin. Temp-reg night air gusting the hair outta your face while you're shoved halfway out the window, one hand caught against the sill like that'd be enough to keep you from falling two stories and _splatting_ like a dark egg on the asphalt below.

The night ain't done yet. Can tell by the creamy predawn that it's gonna be done real soon.

Be a good time to get up and start moving if you were the kinda person who needed to start heading out anywhere in particular. Problem is you got nowhere to go and making a long trek on foot's a bad plan generally speaking. Could hitch a ride but, hell. You're done running with crews. Promised yourself that shit. You're done running with crews and listening to DJs 'cause all that gets you is knives jammed up to the hilt in the back. Through with that. You're goddamn through with that. Crews don't stick. Didn't stick when you was starting out, didn't stick when you actually _tried,_ didn't stick when it were just you and a DJ, didn't stick when you lied about everything you was. So sure, the problem's _you_ and you fucking get that, all right?

You can run on your own if you need to but you're gonna need a set of wheels first and every chance you've gotten in netting one, it's gone Costa Rica in some goddamn way or another. Can't take it by force so you gotta take it _smart._

That cycle could've been your ride. You could've sneaked your tracker onto it, the one you pieced together special from a BLi surveillance tag, and tapped into its location with your transmitter. Sure, you got no idea about the distance on that thing, but that's one of the things you gotta _test out,_ see?

You've stayed here too long. Nightmares ain't nothing new, not for you, but that's the first one that hangs over you and tints your thoughts gray with a sourceless fucking dread for hours after. You start packing your shit.

You figure it's the dream that wakes you. A second later, it's the hum of an approaching motor that vibrates the ground beneath your feet.

Someone's coming. You duck down, hide away behind the tangle of Joshuas. 

Chirp of laser fire. The fuck? You peer out from behind your cover and your heart skips a beat when you spot the car streaking closer, closer - and there's BLi like white bullets at its bumper. There's dracs on motorbikes shooting in bright blisters of energy, sizzling the murky, early-ass morning.

Shit. You huddle down on the spot, watch the cars race by. The car at the front's obviously the target here. There's music blasting outta the open windows, and you can spot a couple heads of bright hair inside as it rips past. It don't make it much farther. One of the dracs scores a hit, blows open one of the back tires with a laser blast, and the scent of burnt rubber peels out from the skid and screech of the car being brought to an abrupt halt. It ain't far from the fridge, ain't far from _you._

Right away, the killjoys swarm outta their vehicle to fire on the dracs at their backs. There's only three of them, and a full patrol of white suits on their tails. You could...

The car at the head of the patrol halts and Jesus christ that's a fucking scarecrow. You might be able to cut down a couple dracs from the sidelines, but a crow?

You see it work from a distance, getting steadily closer. Bald head, long gray coat. Frills at the cuffs of its sleeves. Pretty sure you've seen this one in action before, not that it gets any easier to watch. You don't wanna see a killjoy get their neck snapped with enough force to flop their head loosely on a string of cartilage and bone. Don't wanna see a killjoy get pumped with so much plasma that their guts steam and sizzle in the midday heat as they keel over backwards onto the ground.

It happens anyway. Can't do a goddamn thing to stop it. 

The last of the Zone-rats makes a break for your hiding spot. You press yourself to the trunk of the Joshua that's keeping you shielded. Laser bolts scald the sand, cut the air with the scent of ozone. The killjoy comes closer, breath tight and pained in their lungs. They clip past you. The scarecrow's a few meters away, moving fucking _fast,_ way the hell too inhumanly fast to be normal. Its hand closes around the killjoy's wrist and tweaks it. The bone snaps like kindling. The killjoy screams.

The scarecrow tugs them close, sets the muzzle of its raygun beneath their chin, and for a moment, pauses. You can't see its face. You can only see the absolute terror reflected on the killjoy's expression when the gun goes off and punches a hole of blood and char into their neck and cooks their brain in their skull.

The crow slaughters each of those killjoys with a sharp efficiency and it don't need any of the help of the dracs to do it. It watches the Zone-rat drop into the dust and signals to its entourage and fuck. Fuck. They're gonna see you. You need to hold perfectly fucking still and pray none of them come near your hiding place, barely ten meters away from where the scarecrow just dropped that motherfucker.

The dracs make quiet, grunting noises to one another. Some of them almost sound like they're saying real words, chatting like coworkers, like a couple of fucking B-cells in their office cubicles.

You hold still. Still as you can. Your heart throbs painfully while you watch the white shapes shift around in the dust, pack three corpses into the synthetic carbon-plastic that keeps the bodies fresh 'till a clean-up crew figures out what they wanna do with them. The dracs're just as efficient in packing away the evidence as the scarecrow was in ghosting the rats in the first place.

You don't run. You stay right the fuck where you are 'till the scarecrow gets back in the car and the dracs get back on their bikes and they're buzzing out.

Three new bodybags lie on the ground like black-and-white slugs. Blood and char in the sand. The car lies abandoned, the heel of one tire leaking smoke and burned rubber fumes. You stop at the car, peer into it. Not much you can salvage, but there's some water and canned food and that'll keep you going for a bit. The car don't have a spare tire, so as much as you'd _like_ to patch this thing and get on the road with it, it ain't going nowhere with a back tire as messed up as this one. The rubber'd gone thin for a while, looks like: all the tires're in pretty shit condition. No wonder a drac was able to blast the thing open with a well-placed shot.

It's a goddamn mockery. Easy transport's in your reach, right under your hands. The sun-cooked metal heats your palms when you rest them on the exterior 'till it scorches the skin, turns the pads of your fingers reddened and heat-blistered.

Can't do a goddamn thing about it now.

You hunch down over the bodybags, one by one, digging for each mask. Takes you a minute to place the features of the killjoy that died closest to you - they've accumulated a fresh scar over on their chin and their hair's more red than orange these days, but you remember the configuration of those freckles, dark and scattered across the sharp corners of their face.

Same motherfucker that bashed you up against a vending machine the day you made it out into the Zones. Their buddy called them _Nico_ and yelled at them to stop brutalizing you while you goaded them into fucking you up a little further.

"Dunno what to say t'you, bud," you tell the empty-eyed carcass staring vacantly into the midmorning sky. "Couldn't've done much for you."

A twinge beneath your sternum. Maybe stepping out into the open and taking a few shots could've saved one of them, or more, drawn the crow to you for a second. More likely it'd just mean one more bodybag out in the dust.

You keep turning those thoughts over in your head, you're gonna lose your mind. Not that you ain't already lost it, huh? You shake your head, fish out Nico's mask. It's simple, red fabric with holes cut out for the eyes.

Ain't like you owe Nico anything, all right? But if you don't take these masks to the Witch, then who the fuck will? You ain't gonna wait for BL/ind to drac the bastards. Nobody deserves that, even a motherfucker like Nico who were fully fucking willing to beat the shit outta some kid they didn't know. Like you didn't have it coming anyway. The other two with them - you dunno their names. Don't recognize their faces. Don't mean you can't carry their masks 'till you find a mailbox to leave them.

Might as well, right? You're heading that way anyway.

The same morning the scarecrow shoots up the stretch out by the fridge, you pick a direction and start walking.

Sucks to go on foot but you been making do for a while now. That ain't nothing new neither. Sucks especially to be trekking through the Zones on foot while the sun carves a meticulous arc up through the cloudless sky. Things get hottest around midday and it's already pretty fucking hot. The sweat's leaking down your face and burning your eyes. It's the reminder of what's at your back that keeps you moving. You wasn't so stupid that you didn't stock up water before heading out but you're trying to cross a wasteland of nuclear desert on foot which is something no fucking kid is meant to do.

You keep going 'till you fucking can't anymore. You go 'till you drop into the dust in the shade of a rock that springs up like a jagged fist in the dust, lean yourself up against the rough rock. Your hair spills dark and greasy down your shoulders and into your face. You can feel every scar dug into your skin, every line of ink laid into your surface area. The weight of three masks feels like crow claws on your back, sunk into the meat and bone of your shoulders.

Pretty sure you ain't gonna die out here. But you're tired in a way that no clap has ever made you, shedding adrenaline like heat off a solar flare. Like watching those killjoys die sapped something from you. 

_Never saw it happen so quick before._

You doze with your gun in hand, your mask still on, your head lolled back against the glazed-clay color of the reddish rock keeping you sat up. Should stay awake. That crow could still be out here. You shift so that the sharp edges of your vantage point dig up into your shoulder blades, hold up both hands to study them at length. You document the parts of you that've been shaded into your skin, one by one, 'cause you got nothing else to do and you need to stay alert.

Monster head on your ribs at your right, done when you was ten or eleven or some shit. A set of gears bound up in chains on the left to match it, not long after. A brazen command of _FTWWW_ done in red at your lower back to the right of your spine. A black dog on your right shoulder and a monster hand digging into the skin of your forearm just beneath. A tangle of machinery rolling down your left shoulder and terminating at the elbow. A vibrant _BOOM!_ haloed in an explosive burst at the back of your left hand, done first in black and then done over again in a blistering smear of red and orange. Eight letters across your fingers forming foul words, done needlepoint and sloppy while drunk. A ring of beads, dark and stabbed into the skin around your left wrist. A ribbon running along the left side of your neck, the name of a Mad Gear EP imprinted in dark ink. An eye done in green and blue and yellow, the pupil rolled upwards, sunburst streaks stretching all the way down to your left wrist before the beams caress the interleaving plates of the robotic design at your elbow.

The latest is one you dotted into the back of your right hand. It's your symbol, the one you drew out over and over again 'till you was happy with it. A smiley face to contradict BLi's, the mouth stitched shut and an "X" carved through the right eye. The skin went red and puffy after you done it and bled and scabbed over in places but it's still drawn out there in dark, thin, precise lines.

Your hair's getting longer and your skin's still scarred and scabbed and sunburned but it's patterned with crisscrosses of color. You look at the crooked, sewed-shut smile you dug into the back of your hand and you can feel that demolition grin splitting your face in two.

First time you can remember looking at some part of yourself and liking what you see.

At some point between one thought and the next, you slide outta consciousness with the phantom prickle of a face on the back of your head and three masks anchoring you to the ground.

**\--**

**even the hidden nowhere river is poisoned  
orange and acidic by a coal mine. **

**\--**

The scream of crows wakes you. There's a line of dust being kicked up by a set of tires, the sound of a motor tuning closer. You get up slow, wobbling on your feet from the heat and the hunger and the disorientation that comes from moving too suddenly. The car's a distant, buff-colored blot on the horizon, grayish and worn down and nothing special. It's the first set of wheels you seen since you started wandering from the battery acid taste of your nightmares.

The dark bird at your back shrieks rusted and shrill. The sun sinks low and shades the horizon with a smear of pink-on-purple dusk. The car's coasting along, tires on sand, at a comfortable rumble and not a high-speed skid. The cooling evening makes it easy to jog to keep it in eyesight. Even when it inevitably gets ahead of you, it stands out enough for you to pick it out right away when you catch up to it outside an old gas station.

You count the Zone-rats that climb outta the thing. Two. A kid with bleached hair and one with hair dyed violently red. Neither look a whole lot older than you. 

Score.

The burner with the bleached hair flips up the hood to study its insides. You can't get a real good look at the shining interlocking loops of metal in the engine, but now that you're close enough to parse the worn, dust-beaten knife-shape of the thing, you know exactly what the fuck you're looking at. That's a pre-war Trans Am, a Pontiac Firebird. Rough condition, sure, but you ain't never seen something so shiny in your goddamn life, so of fucking course you ain't letting this thing slip outta your sight. 

The real trick here's getting the keys off them, 'cause you _could_ hotwire the thing, but that'd kinda be a fucking crime, wouldn't it? This cradle is fucking beautiful, in actual working condition, and you'd hate to jack up the circuitry over a clean getaway. Besides - you got ways to keep tabs on a prize like this. And the kid in the blonde hair, they make it easy. Once they pop the hood they leave it like that for a second, the engine still cooling, 'cause you guess they didn't see nobody around so 'course they don't expect somebody to slink up and snap a rewired BL/ind surveillance tag under the metal and dart away again.

You ain't got a real good idea of the radius for your PTTP when it comes to its BLND signal. You're about to find out.

You got nowhere to go and nothing to fucking lose.

You tail these burners for days. For almost a full week, they got no clue. You're running low on supplies so at this point your opinion on jacking the car's changed and you'll settle for taking _something_ you can use so all this effort and sweat you poured into this weren't for nothing. So maybe trying to saw the catalytic converter off the bottom of the goddamn car weren't the smartest idea. You're outta water and you're _fucking tired_ and both the owners were out like a couple of lights, so you took your fucking chances.

You meet Party Poison knuckles first. Then the Kobra Kid acquaints himself with you via a boot to the fucking ribs. Poison busts your nose in one hit, Kobra takes the legs out from under you, and the pair of them beat the bloody shit outta you.

Be nice to quit laughing, but that were never an option. You can't tell if it puts either of 'em off, the fact that you don't shut the fuck up and quit cackling while they fuck you up for fucking with their car. But they don't kill you.

Could quit while you're ahead. The pair of them let you off with a beating and a warning to fuck off. But where else you got to go?

The range on your transmitter goes farther than you thought. You catch up to the pair of them at pit stops and when they're making trades with other gangs. They make it easy. They don't cover a lotta ground in one day. They got that kinda bright-souled abandonment, that wandering carelessness over where they end up. Don't seem to care where they go as long as they get to drive there _fast_. Means they don't got any real cause burning at their veins. Not like real killjoys. They're out here reveling in it. They're living free and they got each other's backs so they got nothing to worry about, yeah?

Sure. Sure fucking thing.

Next time you catch up to the pair, one of them's passed out in the backseat of the car and the other's sat on the hood. There's a fire lit where they must've eaten earlier, sparking logs popping faintly when the heat finds pockets of ancient sap untouched by the desert sun. The red-haired burner's got a mask that looks deep orange in the dimming light, a raygun the same color. Their head's bowed forward slightly. They look like they're nodding off.

You're really fucking in for it when their head snaps up the second you draw near and they level the muzzle of their blaster on you and freeze for a minute.

"You again?" The scorn rolls off them like heat off an engine.

You flash your shit-eating crooked-ass grin right on back at 'em.

"Miss me, bitch?"

You try this three more times before they both get sick of your shit enough to fuck you up a little harder. Shows what they know. You're fluent in bruises and black eyes and broken bones. Must not've been out here real long if these two think that they can get away with kicking your face in and leaving you groaning in a puddle of your own sick. Should light up your brain with sparking plasma. Should strip your guts from your bones. Should stick their guns down your throat and sear your fucking _heart_ 'till it boils and bursts.

The sixth time you catch up to them, it's the same configuration as always. One of them in the backseat of the car, usually the burner with the bleached head, and the other on the hood keeping watch. Only this time you ain't alone; there's these two dracs creeping close and one of them's got a mask in hand, dangling like a scalp in one gloved fist.

You're hunched outside the radius of the cooling firepit that the pair of them usually set up before they clock in for the night. You wait for one of them to wake. One of them always does. The runner in red, they always wake up when it's you. _C'mon._ The dracs're dead quiet, creeping closer.

_C'mon!_

They're gonna wake up. Any minute now.

You ain't slept in days now. Can't remember the last time you risked it. Are these things real? Have you finally fucking lost it? You screw your eyes shut, rub at them hard with the back of one heavily inked hand, and open them again.

Nope. Still there.

And still, neither of the motherfuckers is _waking up_.

_Wake up, c'mon!_

The drac's lifting one of those hollow-eyed masks up, ready to slip it over the kid's head.

Fuck it.

You're sat too close to miss. You light up both those pigs and they don't get time to react. Both dracs fall forward, the backs of their heads steaming, in time for the Zone-rats to rip themselves awake. You get two seconds to laugh at the looks at their faces before an arm hooks 'round your neck and squeezes your airway shut. You choke, clawing at the elbow jacketed in white as it pinches your throat. _Fuck._ How'd you miss this? _Fuck-up._ You ain't slept in days. You know how the fuck you _missed_ this. Back to the schoolyard wall, hands around your neck, _not thinking about that, c'mon, c'mon, wake the FUCK up_ but you got no leverage and the range of motion in your shoulder's always been shit since that car crash and you're so much fucking shorter than that drac bastard that's currently strangling you to death. They gonna mask you? They gonna turn your corpse into one of those gutted, soulless things that shamble and mumble and can't form real words? Wanna vomit. Wanna puke all over your shoes. _Put a gun to your head, just have them do it themselves, do it quick, do it for real, c'mon you godless pussy BASTARDS -_

The blonde crash queen reaches up at the draculoid from behind, cups one hand around the front of its mask and another at the back of its head and yanks hard. Snaps its neck in one clean pull. The drac sinks to the ground, nearly takes you with it. You stumble free from the thing's grip before it can drop you. Nearly overbalance. Crash into the blonde kid from the side and their hands come up to your shoulder in a steadying motion that seems more automatic than anything 'cause once they get a good look at you they scoff and shove you back.

"What," says the red-haired burner, "the _fuck."_

"How the _hell_ do you keep finding us?" says the other. Sounds an awful lot like they wanna be pissed off but hell if you figure you can hear an edge of something almost admiring chopping into the words.

Now that you got a better look at the both of them, the fiery half-light throws the shadows around both their faces into harsher relief. Ain't hard to tell that the thinness to their faces and the bruised half-moons hung beneath their eyes means that they ain't been getting a lotta sleep recently either.

That's probably your fault. You been running yourself ragged to keep up with them. Should've occurred to you that they'd be doing the same. You been harassing them for how long now?

Could've killed them. Could've killed them the same way you killed Shot Glass and Bombshell Boy, or set 'em both up to die easy. You got three masks that still need slotting into a mailbox.

For the second time that night, you think to yourself, _fuck it._ And you pop the hood of the Trans Am and show them both the surveillance tag that's been stuck there for like, two weeks now.

You get another black eye for that.

And, y'know, fair. You mind it less than the bruises the drac definitely left around your throat.

While you're lying there poking at the tender skin swollen up around your eye from the blonde kid's fist, the other burner crouches down and looks at you. The dying firelight halos them in crimson. The faded glow ignites the tips of their hair and makes them flare like neon in the dark. They hold your surveillance tag in one hand, turning it over between their fingers.

"You make this?"

"Retrofitted it special outta BL/ind tech." You rub at your throat. Goddamn, that's gonna ache for days.

The burner cocks their head.

"What else can y'make?"

You laugh, head flung back. You can taste blood in your demolition smile.

"I make things go _boom,_ motherfucker."

**\--**

**how can you not fear humanity  
want to lick the creek bottom dry **

**\--**

You ain't a fucking dumbass and you know there's a bigger game here. Why're they keeping you around, huh? Strategy? Pity? Nah, wait, you know this one - it's 'cause you can be _useful_ to them. 'Cause you proved you could make some real fun shit with appropriated BLi tech and now they wanna know what else you can do. They wanna keep you close. They wanna see how they can use you. You ain't stupid. You know how this works by now. Point is to play along 'till it stops getting you ahead. Gonna ditch 'em first, ditch 'em before they ditch you. You ain't stupid.

Really? 'Cause how many crews've you gone through by now, and how many of them were the ones to kick _you_ first - ?

 _Shut up._ You know. Okay? You know. Fuck off.

You know how this works. Know how to gauge someone's tolerance of you. Just 'cause these two put up with you now don't mean they will forever and that's what you're banking on. Soon as they turn their backs, you're gonna rip out as much of this car as you can carry and you're gonna sell it to some junkpunks or sat-chasers or _anybody_ who'll take it. Who wouldn't? This is prime-ass material here. Antique pre-war goods like those? Gotta sell. That'll keep you alive for a couple days longer, at least 'till somebody else you gotten on the wrong side of finds you and fucks you up real good.

The introduce themselves as Party Poison and the Kobra Kid, and they're like all the rest. You goddamn know it. Any day now they're gonna look at you like everyone else has - with that dawning realization, that sickening scrunch of their features that says they finally realized you're just as fucking rotten as you look. Just 'cause they look at you like you're something they're still putting together, like you're someone they ain't figured out and not a rabid dog that needs to be put down, that don't mean shit.

They don't ask you shit about your life and you don't ask them shit about theirs. You dunno why Party Poison's rebreather's built into a giant-ass, person-sized Mousekat head that looks like it came outta some inner city kid's nightmares. Kobra Kid don't ask why your filter systems're in your green-and-purple monster mask. You don't say nothing about the Kid's motorcycle helmet and the words "GOOD LUCK" arrayed over the dark strip of visor. You slide three masks into the first mailbox you find and you can feel the Kobra Kid's eyes on you when you do it but he don't get into the car to drive off without you 'cause Poison's busy doing whatever the fuck they're doing with the mailbox. Praying, maybe. They got a set of bad luck beads around one wrist, same as Kobra. Same as you. Same as a lotta motherfuckers out here. You dunno what obligation they got with the Witch and it ain't your business to ask.

Nobody asks questions like that out here. That's how it is.

Thing about Party Poison is that they are radioactive, they are the solar heat bleeding off the edge of a comet. They're red hair brighter than anything and a fire in their fucking soul to match. They don't do nothing by half measures. They are always up to fucking eleven. When they drive they have the music cranked up to full blast and they shout the words they know by heart. Could tell right away that they're from the city, same as you. They got the same features as a dozen others you knew in those walls, mixed in an obvious way, the monolid eyes and the blade-sharp cheekbones, but more than that it's in the way they talk and stand and carry themself.

It's in the way they look at you like they're way the hell older than they actually are, older than they _look._ Can't be much older than you, maybe a year or two at the most. They look at you like they're committing every piece of you to memory and you ain't never been looked at like that before. You been looked at like you was fucking subhuman (true) and like you was scum at the bottom of someone's foot (also true) and you been looked at like a dozen other variations on that same fucking theme but that weird interest, that fucking _ferocity_ they've got to their stare, that's a new fucking thing and that's pretty fucking suspicious of them. Makes you wanna hold still as possible under their scrutiny. You think it's a sharp set of eyes today and it'll be a knife in your back the next. Like they're sizing you up. Bet that's what this is. That's all this fucking is. Fucking _convenience._ Ain't it always.

But hey, if nothing else, you got assurance that it fucking _runs_ in the family.

The Kobra Kid's their brother - taller, paler, blonder. There's enough similarities between the two of them for the familial resemblance to be obvious. They got the same bizarrely delicate features, the same tapered eyes, the same high cheekbones that carve sharp shadows into their faces when the light gets low. 

Unlike Poison, the Kid locks everything tight like a vault 'till he's up in your face. You don't see it coming when he comes at you 'cause he does it with the same bizarre, casual intensity that he uses to approach everything else. He seals it all behind a dull monotone that barely ever fucking breaks and when it does it's to do something like drive a fist into the curve of your cheek and sometimes he don't even break then. Keeps himself shuttered behind his aviators. Bet you're a nail in his side. Bet you're gonna drive him off the fucking edge one day. Bet you're gonna make him lose his _mind_ and he'll fucking kill you in cold blood outta plain old annoyance.

The way it works is that Kobra's in charge of making the car work and Poison's in charge of driving it. Kobra keeps shooting you these hard looks like he's daring you to fucking _try_ laying your fingers on the engines but his threats're never overt and obvious. They're always unspoken. They're in the space between his glare and your grin.

They don't ask your name. Not at first. They call you _dipweed_ and _motherfucker_ and whatever the hell they need to get your attention. That's fucking fine.

They wear each other's colors. Poison's red hair and a yellow mask. They're a blue Dead Pegasus jacket and a set of bad luck beads. The Kid's a red jacket, red mask, red gun - and a yellow motorcycle helmet painted with swirls of white and red and blue.

They're seamless in a firefight. They work in tandem and they don't need to spare words between them. It's mesmerizing. It's goddamn beautiful.

It's distracting as _shit_ is what it is.

They're a weird fucking pair. You've run with siblings before but it weren't for long so you got no clue what counts as normal and what don't. You kinda get the feeling that even for a couple zonerunners who're related, there's something about these two that ain't quite right. They're from the city, that much is pretty goddamn apparent from the muscle tremors and the night chills you know they get and pretty much everything about how they've got each other's backs, but beyond that? You dunno how long they been running in the Zones. The most you got is that they've had each other's backs for a while. Probably since they was kids. You know better than to pry into whatever the hell went on before then. Like everything else between them, it ain't your business.

You ain't exempt from pushback if they don't like what you have to say. They'll fuck you up if you cross a line but they'll do that to each other too, and then - what? It's your job to keep 'em off each other? As if. That's family disputes. Ain't gonna concern yourself in shit that don't have nothing to do with you.

They don't exactly invite you to join 'em in any official goddamn sense. You end up tagging along 'cause they ain't told you to fuck off yet, so 'till they do you got no reason to go anyplace else. Where the hell else're you gonna get a set of wheels like this one, huh? Turns out to be a good thing. You and them cross paths with a couple zonerunners who treat the three of you with a wary neutrality when you bunk down in the same building for the night but neither group departs and god _damn_ but - look, these fuckers had an antique portable media player on hand and like hell you was gonna let that slip on by.

Either you're losing your touch at thieving or you were always kinda shit at it. You wake the camp of crash queens and they lay into you, ready to start breaking ribs 'till your laughter's barely more than a bucking, pained wheeze. You get time to think _this is it, this is how you go out_ before Kobra breaks one of their wrists and punches the other in the throat. The third one Poison says something to, real quiet, and they all fucking pack up and highway out in the middle of the damn night.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" says Poison. They say it less like a question, more like something rhetorical, almost amused.

"Could ask you the same," you shoot on back between the wide arc of your smirk. 'Cause their question's got an easy answer, but they're the ones who went outta their way to keep those crash kids from smearing you into a fucking paste under their boots.

Couple days out, the car quits working so hot. Kobra might be a deft hand at fixing cars, but that don't mean shit when you got an empty tank and you're stuck in the ass-end middle of nowhere. Good news is that, post-Analog Wars, it ain't hard to get your greasy hands on the right combo of chemicals that'll get a motor running again. You show Party Poison and the Kobra Kid how to mix oil with nitromethane to make glow fuel when the tank burns out and you don't got any gasoline for backup. Most of the stations out here keep motors running on cheap shit, bootleg stuff, diluted and watered down or cribbed from city shipments or smuggled from god knows where. One of the reasons everybody out here's got so much goddamn car trouble.

"Y'know what you're driving here, right?" you tell Kobra while you help him fill up the tank. He looks at you and through the dark shield of his aviators it's kinda hard to tell what he's trying to communicate. "You're drivin' yourself a pre-war Pontiac Firebird. That's a Trans Am, motherfucker. Antique. That shit's _real."_

Kobra's expression don't change.

"Just sayin', it's fuckin' valuable as shit, all right?"

"We ain't selling the car," says Poison from the driver's seat, reading a magazine. They don't look up from whatever articles they're perusing.

"Just sayin'!"

"Nobody asked," says Kobra.

Here's the difference between these two and every other crew you've run with: unlike damn near everybody else who's put up with you, these two don't pretend that you're anything but what you are. When you piss them off by getting all up in their fucking faces, they tell you to shut the fuck up and sometimes one of them'll be the first to throw the punch when you really chew the hell outta their nerves. They don't act like everything's _nice_ and _fine_ when it ain't. They don't lie and pretend you're some kinda friend, some kinda _close personal pal_ when you dunno them and they dunno you. They got no problem with calling out your stupid ass when you take things too far. Gives you a weird kinda faith that once you've worn out your welcome, when they're well and truly sick of your shit and ready to leave you in the dust, they'll say it to you plain.

You keep waiting for them to tell you to fuck off for good. To leave you with a steaming laser blast in an arm or a leg when they ditch you. Maybe they figured that if you was gonna hound them for days anyway, they might as well let you ride with them.

"Hey," says Poison one night, maybe a week into you riding with them full-time. They level their eyes on you through the holes in their sunshine-yellow mask and you can feel their gaze. "You got a name or something?"

Like it only just now occurs to them, days into this weird-ass arrangement, that maybe they should start calling you something other than _fucktruck_ and _bastard_ and _dumbass._

"Fun Ghoul," you say. You don't hesitate.

Party Poison don't say nothing to this for a minute. They don't apologize for how long it took them to ask, because Party Poison is blatantly unapologetic about everything. They don't ask what it means. They don't do nothing but nod to themself, quiet, and say: "all right."

It's the first time you've said the name aloud. It settles something in you, some heaviness in your ribcage.

The last name you had, the one everyone called you, it were something thrown at you and it clung like dirt to your hair and under your nails and to the back of your neck. You wore it 'cause it were better than the name that BLi stuck on all the official papers naming you. Wore it like a fucking badge, like every bruise and black eye that's ever stained your skin.

This one - you _picked_ this one.

You took all the shit that's been flung at you, every bitter snarl tossed between bloodied teeth - _monster, ghoul, bastard, fongool_ \- and you made something real outta all that. Made something that meant _you._

It's the first time you've said the name aloud. You look at your monster mask with the purple skin and the green hair, and your smile don't feel as skewed as usual.

For once in your life, it's _you._

**\--**

**to suck the deadly water up into  
your own lungs, like venom? **

**\--**

On second thought, you dunno what their angle is. Told yourself it were convenience but that ain't it at all. They don't need you for car repairs, 'cause Kobra can do that fucking excellently without you. They don't need you to cover their backs. Party Poison and the Kobra Kid're a well-oiled pair, in perfect sync with each other. They don't need the spare hands. They work better alone. They could ditch you any time they like. Dunno why the fuck they're letting you stick with them.

Could be you annoyed them into it. Whatever though, right? You don't gotta prove your worth. They wanna total you and be done with it, they can do that anytime they want. But they haven't yet for whatever reason and you're highly fucking suspicious of this.

They don't like you, neither one of them. You're sure of it. Sure as shit don't _trust_ you neither - you can tell 'cause whenever you take watch, one of them takes watch with you. Two times outta three it's you and Party Poison, an arm's length of space between you on the hood of the car. You're fishing a crumbled pack of cigarettes from your jacket and pawing around for your lighter one of those nights when Poison says, "need a light?"

They've got a coffin nail lit up too, how 'bout that? Funny shit. Someone else who's got the same vices as you. Can't remember which of your old crews passed this sick habit onto you anymore but you kinda got full confidence that you would've found some way to atrophy your lungs anyway. You suck in enough bomb-smoke and paint fumes for that.

It's Poison's stilling flame that ignites the end of your nic-stick and you inhale slowly, breathe carcinogens into the cold-ass wind-blown desert night.

"Thanks."

You don't ask them why the hell they don't trust you to keep watch, not when you met the pair of them by trying to steal the converter right off their car. That shit's obvious. Don't ask why the hell they're still keeping you around, neither.

Party Poison's got eyes like nobody else you've ever met. The intensity of their stare sharpens whenever you tense up, whenever you and Kobra're snapping words back and forth and things reach a boiling point and you're ready to fucking _bolt_ if it comes to that. You can feel them reading the history in scrawny muscles drawn tight and hands balled into fists and the razor-blade smile you can't switch off.

Once they put you in a headlock 'cause you wouldn't quit winding the Kid up. That's what the two of them're like. They front for each other, they keep each other standing.

Poison takes a long draw off their cigarette. There's a subtle tremor in the muscles of their hands. It's the same shiver that's been drilled deep into your bones even after you clawed your way outta the white cairn of Battery City. Same one that shudders Kobra's fingertips when he's messing with the car. It's the shake of somebody who's been on city meds.

"Bat Rat, aren't ya? You 'n your brother both."

"Who's fuckin' askin'?" says Poison. They don't snap it but the words're a shade chillier than before. Guess they don't like nobody touching on them being from the city. Could also be they don't care for you talking about Kobra.

You laugh, a traitorous skip of a giggle at the roof of your mouth. You hold up your hand and flex the fingers into a fist and out again, like that'll ease the tension that's sown itself into your muscles since the day you was born. Poison watches you do it. Can feel their eyes on you. Always can. Eyes like those, everybody feels 'em.

The shivers in your fingers're obvious, no matter the low light. You shove your hand into your pocket and breathe smoke.

For a minute, it's quiet.

Then Poison says, "y'know these things'll kill you," while taking a drag.

 _That shit'll kill you,_ says GoGo in some half-forgotten corner of your brain.

You ignore it. Snicker again. "So do cars 'n pipe bombs. Best things always do."

Poison makes a vague sound, kinda halfway between a huff and a snort - like they wanna laugh but won't commit to it.

"Fuckin' detonator," says Poison. It don't sound like an accusation but you wouldn't call the words amused either. Idle. Maybe they wanna draw something outta you. Like they can't just fucking _ask._ What the hell've you got to hide, huh?

"Oh, what? Y'gotta problem with detonators?" You're aware that mouthing off is the worst fucking choice to make here, but hey. You've accepted your flaws. Don't like that you're like this, but you've learned to _live_ with it. Anybody who don't like it can do you a favor and blow your brains out for you.

"Ain't nothin' you can do that my brother can't without blowin' shit up," says Poison.

You snort at that one, loud and undignified. _"Pfffff._ You kiddin' me? Blowin' shit up's the best part."

"A detonator'd say that." Poison exhales, breathes smoke.

"Thought killjoys liked blowin' shit up." You know full well that Poison and Kobra, they ain't said whether or not they count themselves as killjoys. Killjoys ain't like your everyday crash queens, your dust angels, your rubberburners, your Zone-rats. _Killjoys_ means something specific - means that these're people out to make BL/ind pay for everything it's done.

"We _do,"_ says Poison. Like they don't realize that they just answered a question you've had since you started running with them. "You any good?"

"What the hell d'you think?" you scoff. Makes it easy to pretend that it don't shake something in you, hearing Poison confirm it. They're killjoys. They're real killjoys, not just dust-runners.

It's the first time someone's said it to you plain like that and maybe you had to worm it outta them but it's a funny fucking story, ain't it, whether or not you can call yourself _killjoy._ Never figured it were that easy, just _saying_ it, 'cause what're you doing that means _revolution,_ that means _burn down the fucking system?_ Maybe you radiated that heat and spark when you was with GoGo, 'cause that was their lot, that were their goal.

You don't need GoGo to fuck up BLi, you figure. If living out here's enough to piss off the Battery, fucking _good._ You're gonna make life as inhumanly fucking difficult for the pigs as possible.

That's what it means to be _killjoy._

And Poison's sitting there waiting for your answer, completely fucking unaware of what's boiling away in your skull. 

You _smile._

"I gotta real _flare_ for destruction."

They're silent a minute.

Then it clicks, and they laugh, a short spurt of noise that sounds like it weren't intentional.

"Christ, that was fuckin' awful."

But you can hear the smile in the words.

You've run with killjoys before, you guess. You dunno. Was the Demon-Sharks killjoys? Kinda. Technically. Just 'cause you ain't seen Kobra or Poison up and _hit_ any BL/ind supply convoys don't mean they ain't aiming to fight them in their own way. But there's an aimlessness to how they do what they do. They don't got any real direction. They drive and stop at random, like to watch tumbleweeds drift past or party at a Zone concert or shoot at cans for fun. That part of what being a killjoy is?

You'd be the wrong motherfucker to ask.

You learn that you ain't as good a shot as Party Poison but you're a little better than Kobra, even with your bad eyes, and that counts for something. For the most part you sit outta their way when they do that shit. It's something they share, sibling-like. You ain't a part of that. They still hold you at an arm's length, still eye you like they expect you to split any goddamn second. You can feel the Kobra Kid looking at you when you fuck around with whatever scrap you get on hand, and Poison don't let you take watch solo. That's fucking fine. The fact that they don't trust you and make that real fucking transparent's a point in their favor. Means they ain't keeping you around outta pity.

The first time they raid a BLi supply truck, it comes right the hell outta nowhere. They're cruising through Zone One and for once Poison ain't blasting the radio at the generally loud and insistent volume characteristic of every tune you can find out here. You get that laying low when you're in the inner Zones is standard but what you don't get is that Poison's doing it to keep an eye out for trucks to specifically rob. Don't become real obvious 'till Kobra says, "got one" from the passenger seat and the pair of them zero in on the white truck trundling through the sand, entourage of dracs on motorbikes keeping it on track.

Once it starts off, you don't question shit. No different than running with other crews, wrecking draculoid faces whenever they ran across 'em, only it's a little bit different when it's Kobra and Poison. The pair of them do runs on BLi supply trucks like it's nothing. Like they're a couple of GoGo's agents running the frontlines. They make do with three burners, draw the drac patrols from the supply trucks and then Poison plunges into the fray and retrieves a crate or two and tosses it into the trunk and then you're hazing out, away from the carnage with enough speed to lose the survivors.

It's a hell of a way to get supplies. Beats trading with Tommy, and ruins BL/ind's day. It ain't about getting resources; it's also about messing with BL/ind's schedules and systems, just enough to needle them.

That's what being a _killjoy_ is. It's looking at that city of white and deciding you're gonna make things a little harder for the people running the place, one step at a time. It ain't about burning the people inside. It's about sending a message. BL/ind don't own you. BL/ind don't control you. BL/ind can take your color and your sound and your life and try its damnedest to swallow it all whole.

And it'll choke on you.

The first time you help out, Poison splits the takings three ways so you all get something out of it. The second time, you toss a homemade molotov into the fray and incinerate most of the supplies you was all after and Poison cracks their knuckles across your jaw. Third time, while Poison's redlining you and Kobra outta the wreckage, you catch something blinking on the side of the white box Kobra fished outta the smoking husk of a crashed supply rig. You make a grab for it. Kobra shoves you back.

"After," he says. The word's a low, warning pull.

"Shit's _bugged,"_ you hiss on back. "Here - "

You grab again and your arms is shorter than Kobra's but you're smaller than him too and you wriggle under his reach. Kobra swears under his breath, bruises your lip in the effort to keep you off him. Poison barks _"hey!"_ from the front seat but fuck them, what're they gonna do, _turn this car around?_ You snatch the tracker off the side of the box, hold it up triumphantly.

"They'll still be on our asses 'less you disable this, fuckwad." Can't keep the smug from your tone when you say it. Once you've gutted it you shove it into Kobra's palm with a satisfied, _"you're welcome."_

From that point forward, it's your job to disable and remove any and all surveillance tags from the shit that Poison and Kobra rip from the BL/ind. Hey, why not play to your strengths? Then you get to play around with their insides later.

It's enough to get a little favor with Poison, who kinda seems like the leader of the two. But Kobra?

Kobra's complicated.

You figure there's one level where the two of you are on an even keel, and that's when it comes to having a gasoline soul and a spark in your heart. Recognized it while Kobra were fixing the car and you've had that hunch squatting in your stomach for a while but now's the time to make good on it.

He's gassing up the Trans Am while you're leaned on the hood, smoking a cigarette, watching. Poison's inside, negotiating payment with the masked tumbleweed running the station. The smell of cheap fuel prickles your nostrils, rancid and acetone.

"Hey. Kobra." Never could shut the fuck up, could you?

Whatever. This? It's important. Important shit right here. You're gonna figure the Kobra Kid out, here and now.

He don't look at you.

"Hey. Hey. Kobra. Hey."

He flips you off. Still don't look at you.

"Kobra. Hey. Kobra. Hey. Hey." 

He finishes filling the tank and screws the cap back on.

"Hey. Dipshit."

Yeah, _now_ he looks at you. You grin.

"Dare you to drink some of that fuel." 

Kobra looks at you.

"All right." Poison emerges from the station, slides on a pair of aviators, and saunters over to the car. They're in the front seat and at the wheel in half a second. "We're shiny. Let's go."

Kobra continues to look at you. You don't break eye contact. Like hell you're gonna snap first.

"Uh, hey," says Poison, who don't like to be ignored and is now cottoning on to the fact that that's exactly what's happening. "We're motorin' out. Let's _go."_

Slowly, Kobra starts to lift the fuel nozzle toward his face.

 _"Hey."_ Poison's outta the car in half a second, wrestling the damn thing outta their brother's grip. "The hell're - the fuck's wrong with you?" It takes them a couple minutes to get the hose outta the Kid's grip, especially when he's got some height on them and keeps holding it way up above their head, dangling the nozzle over his open mouth like he's gonna swallow a couple droplets of undiluted fuel.

It takes another two minutes for Poison to get _you_ into the car 'cause you was almost passed out on the hood cackling.

You catch the tiniest fucking crease of the Kobra Kid's mouth, almost like he's holding back a laugh, in the side mirror.

Yeah, okay.

Think you got him figured out after all.

**\--**

**reader, i want to  
say, _don't die._ **

**\--**

Weeks with these two and they ain't kicked you yet. Might be 'cause you ain't the car guy here and you're ain't the only tech-head neither. Kobra's a deft hand at both. You ain't as good a shot as Poison and you're nowhere near as good at fucking up dracs and exterminators at close range as Kobra is, though you got the element of surprise on your side. No whitejacket expects a five-foot-something tumbleweed to fling themselves at them, screaming and clinging to their back.

You make a show of leaning your elbow on Poison's shoulder after the three of you dust five dracs in an all-out clap, fine and fiery, grinning while you wave smoke outta your face.

Poison tugs away immediately.

"Don't touch me."

"Oh, what, you fuckin' scared - ?"

You reach for their arm and they shove you back and the adrenaline burn-off hanging in the air post-firefight evaporates immediately, 'cause you couldn't leave well enough alone. Half expect Poison to kick you for that but they don't say shit. Just turn around and start looting the dead for carbons.

It's an equal share of violence traded between the three of you but at times it feels like Poison deals it out the most, 'cause they're the one who whacks you good on the side of your head when you next grab their shoulder to get their attention during a clap. The second time it happens, you're dicking around and you lean up real close behind them trying to spook them and they backhand you so hard you see spots.

So that's one of those unspoken rules right there. If you wanna touch Party Poison without their knowing it, here's a little word of advice: _don't._

It were someone else's hands on your neck that pinned you to a wall and threw you into a table and someone else's hands dragging you off the streets and pitching you into your room so y'know, maybe you kinda get that. Maybe you kinda really do.

The one thing you can do better than either of them is what you said you could do: make things go _boom._ You show Kobra what a molotov is, how to soak a rag with the flammable liquid in a glass bottle and light the end and hurl it at something you wanna see reduced to ash and powder. First time he does his own, Kobra _laughs_. It's the loudest sound you've ever heard him make. He grins wide-angled and wild. You can feel Poison's stare when Kobra whoops 'cause he threw his first molotov at a beat-ass skeleton of some old shed and lit the whole thing with a rush of heat and sheeting flame.

You ignore the pulse in your ribs when it happens, the tightening in your sternum that's so fucking goddamn familiar. _Bad sign._ You gonna land yourself in trouble again? You need to run. That's what that means, that pressure, that ache of longing that threatens to choke you out better than your old man ever could.

_Get out, get out, get out while you can before they MAKE you -_

As if in thanks, Kobra gets you this shiny-ass shirt. It's black and yellow and it says _DEMOLITION_ on the front in blocky letters. It ain't the first time somebody's ever given you something (there's a coin-shaped silver hole in your soul, burning ice-bright into the skin of your chest) but the Kobra Kid does it with a total lack of warning. He throws it at you, a black and yellow-striped bundle of cloth that lands on your face and you swear he's doing that weird crooked-ass smirk he sometimes does when you yank it off.

You grab him by the shoulders, shake him, scream in his fucking face _what's your angle,_ hit him 'till he spills why he's doing this shit, why he thinks this'll fix the fact that he bloodied your nose just last _week -_

But none of that's what's happening.

Instead you tell him, "uh, thanks."

To that, Kobra shrugs. "Thought of you."

Thought of you.

The idea of you crossing somebody else's mind, that they saw a thing and decided that, _hey, they'd like that, right?_ is enough to squeeze your heart 'till it feels like a crushed soda can. You swallow hard and it gets real tough to find an answer to that.

Kobra, he don't always look for answers. He's fine with not having 'em.

It's one of the best things about him. That, and how he's willing to take whatever shit you dish out. He takes it 'cause he can give it just as hard. That's a fucking first.

He and Poison, they see you tinkering with surveillance tags and tell you that you can keep an eye out for them down the line. You talk more than either of them. You babble on with your shit jokes and they let you. Poison threatens to stuff you into the trunk. Without missing a beat you climb into it just to see if you'd fit and Poison laughs so hard that they _snort_ and Kobra doubles over in silent wheezing and you can tell you're in trouble, you're in a hell of a lotta trouble 'cause you can tell that you're gonna do whatever stupid shit you can do to get either one of them to laugh like that again.

They get glitched off at you for being a pain in the fucking ass and lay one out on you across the kisser if you cross a line but they never tell you to fuck off and that's kinda what counts the most.

Then the Demon-Sharks find you.

**\--**

**even when silvery fish after fish  
comes back belly up **

**\--**

Okay, so they don't _find_ you. Ain't like they was looking for you. You figure that much out the first time you see them again.

You're fresh off a run on Bli and one of their luckless little supply convoys. Kobra's inventorying what your latest haul brought in. Mostly canned food. Peas, beans, tomatoes, non-perishable crap. Probably substitutes for the real things, synthetically grown and shit, but still better than the protein squares that're all you get most of the time or worse, wet dog food. You're disabling the trackers planted in the baggage, one by one, watching the red lights blink off and unscrewing the caps and undoing the wiring so they can't be reactivated remotely.

"Heads up," says Poison. They stub out their cigarette on the skin of their wrist. Kobra watches them do it. There's these subtle shifts in the Kid's expression that take him from "impassive" to "guarded" and you see every muscle in his face flicker when he focuses on some distant point in the horizon. Don't take long for you to see the line of dust in the distance, sprouting up in the place where the sky meets the smooth sands of Zone One. It's a pickup, big and bulky, wobbling closer. Even if it weren't painted in splotches of muddy gold, it'd be obvious it ain't BLi - the cars they use in the Zones're all the same model, save for their white-armored trucks. Most of their cars're gas-powered shit that can run beyond the city line.

"Oh," says Kobra, deadpan. "Incoming."

You laugh. Kinda don't mean to, but you never do. Poison and Kobra don't acknowledge it. They kinda never do.

Poison unholsters their raygun. It's bright yellow, same shade as their mask, with a red streak along the side. It's got Japanese scripted on the barrel, reads _GIVE ME MONEY_. They hold it at the ready at their side while you and Kobra watch the pickup crawl closer and closer.

No mistake: it's headed for the three of you.

It skids to a stop and out step five wandering Zone-rats. You almost don't recognize the shithead at the front. His hair's buzzed short on the sides now, stuck up in a short thick scruff of mohawk down the center. But there ain't no mistaking that X-shaped scar under his left eye.

Fuck.

Fuck you, it's fucking Demon Daze.

Don't recognize the four he's got with him. Guess that means that Lockdown and Jolt Fuel - well, they either split or they got themselves ghosted. Dunno which it was, and don't care neither. Last time you saw any of them, you was getting railed on for giving a fuck about a dead droid. 

You duck your head, let your overlong hair fall into your eyes. Can't keep the sick giggle from worming its way outta your goddamn throat. _Fuck._ Shut the fuck up, why don't you? Why don't you shut the fuck _up,_ you freak? _Freak,_ says NewsAGoGo, the angle of her smile sardonic and inescapably _fond_ and - stop it, stop it, cut it out, _shut the fuck up,_ god!

Demon Daze has changed in the years since you seen him last. So've you. Dunno if he recognizes you. He still leads his Sharks and he still smiles like he means to kneecap you which, y'know, so do you, so that's his problem. You was smiling like a freak first. Done it since you was born. You're pretty goddamn assured of this.

"Hey there, tumbleweeds," says Demon Daze, the words dry as bone-dust. "What're you doin' this close to the city?"

"Whatever the fuck we like," says Party Poison, smooth as they goddamn please. That's the unspoken rule here. You and Kobra, the one thing you can do is let Poison do the talking. They're rude as a motherfucker can get but they do it with class and that makes all the difference.

Demon's eyes rove. He's thinner than he was, his shoulders not as ropy with muscle. A lean, hungry look to him. No telling what his problem is. Maybe he's clean outta carbons. Maybe he got on the wrong side of Tommy Chow Mein. Hey, that'd be one thing you and him have in common now. You bite on your tongue so you don't laugh right the fuck outta nowhere. The fuck's wrong with you?

Don't answer that. Don't fucking answer that.

You can tell Kobra's sizing them all up. Five on three. Not great odds. You dunno the other four, but you know Demon Daze. You know his style. His style is _fuck people up fast and hard_. He's goddamned merciless. Poison and Kobra - they've never fucked you up so bad you couldn't function and they've never cut you loose. It never occurred to you as violently as it does now that they're as far removed from the Demon-Sharks as its possible to be. It hits you like a goddamned sack of bricks. 

You wanna chuck up your lunch on your shoes.

"That so?" says Demon, nice and slow.

Poison lifts their chin and here's the thing with them: they're fucking imperious. They command everyone's attention. They draw everyone's eyes. It's more than the radioactive red of their hair. It's everything. They ain't the tallest motherfucker you've known but nobody personifies the spotlight the way Party motherfucking Poison does and they can do it with something as clean and smooth as a tilt of their head. They still got their mask on. They're fucking untouchable like this.

"You got a problem," drawls Poison, "how 'bout you do us all a favor and spit it the fuck out, huh?"

They say it like a question but you can tell it's more a command.

Demon goes rigid. The muscles on his shoulders go taut and then his eyes dart to you and - fuck. Fuck.

You catch that beading recognition there.

"Yeah," says Demon Daze, 'cause he's the guy who's got the numbers on his side here, so what the hell's he got to be scared of, huh? "Yeah. I got a fucking problem. You know the kid you're running with?"

"I know my crew," says Poison.

_My crew._

They don't know you. They don't fucking know you, your past, what you're capable of. They dunno that you was born in the _gutter,_ that you came from the Lobby and you clawed your way into the desert with incinerated television sets and a drac you murdered by goddamn accident. They dunno the trail of crews you've left behind and the DJ that once laughed at all your shitty jokes and smiled at you like you was the most important person in the world and they dunno the things you've left fractured in your wake 'cause that's what you do you break shit you fuck shit up you make things worse than they was that is _all_ you ever do you're poison you're toxic you're - 

Party Poison don't even blink. They don't fucking hesitate. 'Cause they're Party Poison. 

They're _Poison_.

And goddamn, but all this time you never questioned why it was they called themself that. Venom in the bloodstream, blood in the water, bad luck in the air. _How many times've they been burned by somebody else?_ How many times was it on them?

Fuck you, _now_ you know why they've kept you around all this time.

Focus. Focus, motherfucker.

"Do you?" says Demon. "Y'know that Monster you're running with?"

He spits the word like an insult. _Monster._

You laugh. Can't fucking help it. You throw back your head and your explosive cackle's louder than a bomb gone off in your fist. Your hair's longer, you're older, you ain't that much taller, but you laugh so fucking hard you can feel your throat going raw. Your sharp-bitten smile eats into your cheeks. You feel Kobra and Poison, shoulder to shoulder, at either side of you but they ain't looking at you.

Funny. 

About ten seconds ago, Kobra was behind you.

"Y'know he's gonna turn on you, don't you?" Demon sneers. "Gonna shoot you in the back and make a run for it."

You can't muster a reply to that, mostly 'cause if you try to say that ain't what happened it's gonna sound like a lie. Always does, coming from you. 'Cause you can't make eye contact, 'cause you laugh and twitch and you _act_ like a real untrustworthy motherfuck. Goddamnit. Goddamnit.

"You gotta fuckin' problem?" says Poison, blunt.

"You give us whatever you took off BLi, and we won't," says Demon. Must've cruised past the wreckage when he was on his way. He nods at the crate sitting in front of the car. Goddamnit.

Kobra's weight shifts subtly. He's a foot or so ahead of you now.

Poison laughs. It's a chilly sound, nothing like your uncontrolled, erratic bursts of something that ain't humor at all. It says so goddamn much without needing a word to do it.

Demon's grip tightens on his gun.

"I said," he growls, "give us the goods, or we'll _make_ you."

Poison stops laughing long enough to wipe at one eyehole with an exaggerated flair, like they're thumbing away a tear from their mask. They drop back, elbow to your shoulder, leaning against you with their head nearly propped up against your own. They're touching you. For the first time in your memory, Poison's touching you in a deliberate way that don't have anything to do with keeping someone alive during a clap. Beneath the veneer of unconcern, the tension in their limbs is jagged as scrap metal. They press something into your hand and just as quick they rock away from you again. 

Your fingers close around the keys to the Trans Am. You don't need more of a signal than that. You start inching back for the car.

"Oh, honey," says Poison, sweeter than cyanide, "it's _adorable_ that you think you could."

Kobra's so fast that you don't see him move 'till he's got one of the Sharks in a guillotine and by then they don't have the air to scream. Poison shoots three times. One shot careens over everyone's heads. The other two peg one of the Sharks: once on the arm, once on the thigh. You draw fast, wrench the door to the driver's seat open to get behind it for cover, blister one Shark's cheek with buzzing plasma and you miss all the rest but the point is that they're all yelling, scrambling, ducking into their car and hiding behind it. Two of them have their guns out, ready to escalate this little disagreement into an out-and-out clap.

Demon Daze lunges for you, aiming to scramble over the Trans Am hood. You raise your gun, but the Kobra Kid gets there first. He drops Demon with an elbow to the base of the neck and then he grabs one wrist and wrenches it behind Demon's back, does something with it that torques it 'till Demon yells, arches his spine, buckles down so he's on his knees. Poison braces their still-smoking raygun against the side of his temple.

"Anybody feel like takin' the shot now?" Poison drawls the words out with utter nonchalance, a clear warning. One by one, the other Sharks lower their weapons. Their expressions're contorted up in loathing, disgust, wary resignation. A whole goddamn menagerie.

Guess Demon's still the guy in charge, huh?

Poison's eyes meet yours for half a second. They angle their chin toward the car.

You might be a stupid piece of shit, but even you can recognize a signal like that. You grab the crate of stuff and load it inside, get into the driver's seat, scramble briefly to figure how the thing works. Nobody's never let you drive before, not other than GoGo and their motorbike and this sure as shit ain't a motorbike. How different can it be? You know how all the engines _work_ and shit, don't you?

"Still feel like hot shit?" Poison's saying, their tone dripping with so much condescension it makes your teeth ache just to hear it. "Or are you gonna get in your car like a good little bitch and wriggle back to your hole?" 

A muscle in Demon's jaw twitches from how hard he's clenching it.

"Fuck you," he says. "We're the motherfucking Demon-Sharks."

"Sure y'are," says Poison, oozing false sympathy. "Now how 'bout you swim on home, little shark?"

Demon spasms in Kobra's grip. Kobra does _something_ to his wrist that causes him to grunt, the veins in his neck standing out.

"Eat - _hnn_ \- shit," Demon gasps.

Kobra levers some kinda pressure or weight on the wrist he's got pinned down and there's a _crack_ and this time Demon yells, a short bark of outraged agony.

"Apologize," says Kobra.

"Fuck y - "

Another crack. One of the Sharks lurches, like they're gearing up to charge, but Poison's smile is razored and they still got their gun pointed at Demon Daze's head.

"Say. Sorry," says Kobra, so quiet you barely catch the words. "Say it."

The difference between the way he fucks around with you or Poison when you're scrapping and this is so immense that you feel your smile wavering a hair. Didn't know that Kobra had this kinda thing in him, is all. This kinda pure, ruthless nerve that keeps a seasoned zonerunner like Demon Daze yoked to the ground.

"S - _sorry,"_ Demon spits, with more venom than you've ever fucking heard in anyone's tone in your life.

"There. Was that so hard?" croons Poison. Kobra shoves Demon away and he goes sprawling in the dirt. Poison winks. "Do everybody a favor and stay in your lane next time, all right?"

It's a credit to how badly Kobra must've fucked the bastard that none of them open fire on you when Poison and Kobra get into the car. You floor the gas, and the three of you peel away from the scene of crime.

 _"Christ,_ Ghoul," says Poison through clenched teeth. "Ain't you ever driven a car before?"

"Good fuckin' question," you say it bright, like you ain't trembling, like no part of you's still vibrating from seeing Demon Daze on the ground and snarling and calling you out for being the Monster you are. It's easy to laugh. Easiest goddamn thing in the world. Cracks your mouth open into a toothy smile and you bark out your mirth through the open window.

"You gotta be fuckin' kiddin' me," says Poison. "You never _driven_ before? Th'fuck kinda Zone-rat _are_ you?"

"I got the basics," you flare back. You try turning and nearly send the car fishtailing into the sand.

"Basics," Kobra repeats mildly.

"Yeah, _basics."_

Poison slides their mask off their face and combs their hair from their eyes. For somebody that can mouth off to a band of ruthless dust-runners and fire on them while outnumbered without breaking a sweat, they sure as shit can't handle someone else driving their car. Might be 'cause you ain't never driven a car before.

"You crash my car, I'm gonna fuckin' kill you," says Poison. It's far from the carefree control they had over that clap with the Sharks. Almost enough to take your mind off what they said before they gave you the keys to the car and trusted that you wouldn't fuck them over - _I know my crew._ "You crash us and I swear I'm gonna pay the Witch to let me _haunt_ your ass for wreckin' my baby here, you got that?"

It were pragmatism. Whatever needed to be said to get outta the clap, right?

They gave you the fucking keys. They're letting you drive.

Fuck.

You try accelerating out of a turn. The momentum spools up so fast you gotta wrench the wheel to keep the tires on the tarmac.

"He's better at this than you," Kobra says to Poison from the back. It's impossible to read his expression. This is a guy who broke several of Demon Daze's bones to get an apology outta him only minutes earlier, now cracking a joke over you being a positively shit driver. When Party Poison drives, it's fast and tight and efficient and it ain't _pretty_ but it's _fast_ , and you're none of those things right now. 

For all the tension in your hands and how tightly you're gripping the wheel you bark out a laugh at that one.

 _"God,"_ says Poison. "That's it. I got no brother. You're a goddamn disgrace."

"'Fast' isn't the only speed there is," Kobra deadpans.

"Right now I'll settle for gettin' there at _all,"_ snaps Poison. "Jesus fuckin' christ Ghoul, y'know this thing can go _a hundred,_ right?"

You did kinda know the Trans Am could go a hundred. Trans Ams is fast cars. Some of the fastest cars in the world, 'specially now. Most of the post-2000 models, you remember from the auto mags and manuals you've perused over the years in the Zones, got burned out from the fallout of the Helium Wars.

It's another thing entirely to feel what it's like to be the one to take the Trans Am to a hundred miles per hour, soaring out across the old roads in Zone One.

Makes your heart beast as fast as hearing the thud and pound of rock-'n-roll for the first time.

**\--**

**and the country plummets  
into a crepitating crater of hatred**

**\--**

Week later and it's still on your mind. Demon Daze's sneer. _Y'know that Monster you're running with?_ paired with Poison's sharp rebuttal: _I know my crew._ The pressure of the Trans Am keys in your hands. The signal, small and direct, and the trust that must've gone with it. That you wouldn't roar off into the distance and fuck them over. _So why didn't you?_

It's GoGo all over again. Wanna run, wanna split, but fuck, how're you gonna do a thing like that? It'd be easier now than it would be with GoGo. So what the fuck's holding you back?

A shirt with the word _DEMOLITION_ on it. The look on Kobra's face when you showed him how to sling a molotov. Party Poison saying _I know my crew_ like it were a fucking given that you're one of them. You're the odd fucking one out here, ain't you? You ain't related like the pair of them are. You stand out. You fuck up. You get in the fucking way. So why the hell would they say - ?

For all their threats, you don't end up breaking the car the first time you drive it and you end up driving it more and more in the days that pass. Poison's a possessive owner; they prefer to be the one steering. Kobra, for whatever goddamn reason, don't seem to be keen on getting behind the wheel. So when it comes to someone needing to be the secondary driver, you're it.

Kobra lets you under the hood. Poison sees him do it and they don't raise any fuss. Together, the pair of you figure out how to grease the Trans Am's circuitry and get her running faster than before, how to make sure her engine don't burn out, how to get her to crack one-twenty on the Getaway Mile. Kobra's got an eye for where things go in cars. It ain't the instinctive knowledge that aches in your fingertips; he moves different. It's someone who knows machines by the numbers and pieces and basics and parts, not someone who's worked with cars all his life the way you have.

You don't dare go so far to call it "trust." But it might be the closest thing to it, and - 

You don't fucking go there.

You make a funny pair, you and the Kobra Kid. He's numbers and facts slotted into a nearly six foot tall killjoy with pale skin and bleach-blonde hair, and you're...whatever the fuck you're supposed to be. Five-foot-and-change, olive-skinned and dark-haired, a menace to everyone and everything and capable of picking shit apart based on the gut impulse of what you know of how machinery goddamn _works._ You wasn't expecting the Kid to be easier to talk to than Poison, but sure enough, that's what's happening. You and him, you got a love for machines, an electricity running through your souls, as common ground.

Poison lets it happen, you and Kobra palling around in your spare time. They got plenty of shit they do on their own anyway. Re-dying their hair. Cutting deals with other crews, people you don't recognize and don't fucking care to know, 'cause you only ever open your mouth and dig yourself and in deep shit and you don't need to owe Poison and Kobra more than you already do.

You owe them. You owe them for Demon Daze, for not kicking you out, for not fucking you over the way everyone else in your life has - 

_And you think they won't?_

Shut up. Shut the fuck up. You dunno. Can't trust that it won't happen. Don't matter how nice they act. _GoGo acted all nice and they couldn't fucking deal with your bullshit, could they - ?_

Sometimes you keep watch alone now. That didn't used to happen before.

Sometimes. Not all the time. Usually Poison's up too, 'cause of course they are. It's a wonder anybody in this crew gets any sleep.

This crew. Not _your_ crew.

_I know my crew._

Shut up, shut up, shut up, shut _UP -_

"Hey," says Poison quietly, unknowingly severing the course of your thoughts. You been lying awake trying to wrestle back the chopped-up lightning jags of your thoughts and it ain't working 'cause it never fucking works. Should've figured Poison'd be awake too. Kobra's keeping vigil on the hood of the car, you and Poison meant to be catching z's on the Trans Am seats. It's safer sleeping in the car than on the ground. Ground's nothing but a heat sink. You'll wake up frozen if you wake up at all.

You glance at them.

"Y'know that Demon-Shark fuck was wrong," says Poison. They sit up so they're looking dead on at you. Like they know what you been thinking all this time. "Y'know you're one of us."

It ain't a question. It's like they're stating the obvious.

There's no words to cover what that fucking does to you. The mirth's rolling up outta your throat before you can stop it. You press one hand up close to your chest but that don't make it stop, don't make the bubble of laughter any easier to stomach. _You're one of us,_ says Poison. They think it's that easy? They think - ha! They think that's how it fucking _works?_ You wanna rip your hair out by the fucking roots. You wanna set your skin on fire and scream hysterical while the rest of you melts into ash. You wanna flip something over, wanna kick Poison's fucking _face_ in for saying it, wanna take your knife and plunge it into your own throat so that it geysers carmine over the fucking upholstery.

You laugh.

You fucking laugh. Sick, silent giggles coil up outta your throat and you can't fucking _stop._

By the time there's enough air in your lungs for you to answer, your grin's cutting a ragged edge into your cheek and you whisper, barely audible: _"no takebacks."_

No takebacks. No fucking walking this back. No barking at you to leave and cutting ties and - _GoGo didn't tell you to leave but she didn't have to 'cause it were obvious from the way she fucking looked at you -_ what's that guarantee? That don't guarantee shit. It's the first time somebody's said that to you point-blank: _you're one of us._ Nobody else in your life has ever wanted to claim you for their own and why the fuck would they?

 _No takebacks._ Feels giddy. You're spoiling a nice moment, you inconsiderate _fuck._

Poison's smile is a wry, vague twitch. Nonplussed over your weird, manic, out-of-place laughter, same as ever.

"Yeah, yeah." They roll over and settle back into place on the Trans Am seats, their words muffled. "Don't let it go to your head, brother."

**\--**

**isn't there still  
something singing? the truth is: i don't know.**

**\--**

Brother.

Slip of the tongue? Nah. Not fucking likely. Poison's more careful about picking their words than anybody you've met. They ain't diplomatic, not by a fucking long shot, but they know how to phrase things the right way. They talk and people fucking listen. That's how they speak - like somebody giving a speech.

Dramatic bitch.

And still, you wanna run. What'd happen if you did, huh? What'd happen if you bolted, if you sliced through this like a knife through a line of stitching, excised yourself like the fucking _tumor_ you are? Their duo's a threesome now, you and Party Poison and the Kobra Kid and, and - _quit pretending that it'll stick._ You and NewsAGoGo, that were like gutting yourself with a rusty knife. Could reach in, split yourself open from sternum to groin and haul the wet slippery insides out and when they go steaming and splatting to the fucking floor everybody can circle 'round and gawk at how you're rotten from the fucking inside out like you always known you was.

_What's stopping you?_

You still snap. Pick fights like scabs. Dig into the soft parts, the chinks in the armor left bared to you. Poison nearly chokes you out 'cause you didn't wanna stop near Tommy Chow Mein's and you bruise them under the eye 'cause you was stuck against a chain-link fence again, trying not to die while _he crushed your airway shut and said he was gonna fucking kill you_ 'till you remembered that you wasn't nine years old anymore. Poison swears you out but they don't tell you to fuck off. They never tell you to _just fuck off._

Next day, Kobra and Poison get into a borderline fistfight over whose carbons are whose.

So you _don't_ go waltzing into Tommy Chow Mein's 'cause you know better than to fucking try it. Poison makes a stop outside one of Tommy's fronts and Kobra asks if you want anything and you laugh when you tell him you ain't exactly welcome where Tommy's concerned.

"I'm motherfucking shocked," Kobra deadpans. "So d'you want anything?"

Brushes it aside like it ain't nothing. Guess growing up with an insufferable dramatic like Party Poison made him used to a thing like that, but who goddamn knows.

You tell him no but you lend him a couple carbons so he don't bother you about it. Poison comes out fifteen minutes later, bitching about how Kobra's haggling with Tommy and they pair of them'll be at that for hours if they don't put a stop to it. You got no clue why they're telling you all this 'till they get close enough to slap something into your palm.

"Hope you're good at stitchin', motherfucker," says Poison, and they swing right back around and head on inside again.

It's a patch.

A bug with a fat thorax striped in black and yellow, stinger poised outwards. A wasp or a hornet or something. You dunno. _SUPA STINGA EXPLODERS_ it says in black bold font around the edges.

_Slingas! Go!_

You got no clue if it means anything. Just that there's only one person you know who tended to do that, dropping the "-er" from words so they'd sound better on radio.

No way they could've known that. Probably saw the word _exploders_ and thought you'd like it. They weren't half wrong.

How old's this thing? Looks worn, sure, but that don't mean much in the desert. Everything out here's secondhand, right down to the fuel.

Party Poison threw it at you like it were nothing. Same way GoGo would - offhand, like it wouldn't shake up everything you knew about how things're supposed to be.

That sure as hell ain't gonna happen again. You ain't gonna let it happen again. If they're gonna give you random shit outta nowhere, then you're gonna return the fucking favor, all right?

You still don't brave Tommy Chow Mein's. You ain't a fucking coward, all right? You ain't fucking scared of whatever that prick might do to you. If he's got some goons to beat the shit outta you, fine. Point is you're trying to pay these assholes _back,_ this pair of killjoys who've chosen to put up with your shit for reasons beyond you, and you can't do that by making them enemies of the biggest supplier in the Zones. That don't mean you're cut off from every goddamn avenue you got.

Like, for one - you're the only motherfucker you know who's shitbrained enough to go looting wavehead dens. Most wavies don't bother you. That's the thing people don't get. They got this stupid fear of waveheads and act like they're some kinda fucking dirt under their shoes and not like they're fucking people. Which, sure, you dunno any of these tumbleweeds personally, but near as you can tell, wavies're no different from anybody else. No different from smokeheads like you. No different than the poor B-cells stuck in the city, wandering in a dull haze, hooked on BL/ind drugs and a nonstop stream of static and propaganda. Everybody wants their next fix. Just want their lives to mean something.

There's usually all kinds of shit laying around in wave-havens. Person like you can waltz inside and take it and most of the time nobody'll stop you, mostly 'cause they're so lost in riding the waves that they don't pay no mind to a short motherfucker poking around in their shit. 'Long as you ain't getting in the way of the UV rays they're keen on soaking up, most waveheads won't give a damn.

Don't mean you take their shit for nothing. Couldn't afford paying 'em back when you was first getting your feet and fending for yourself in the Zones, but you can afford it now. When Poison and Kobra next stop near a sunhouse, it's in the interests of making trades with another band of killjoys in the area. You dunno if you know the gang in question and you know what? Knowing your goddamn history, you don't _wanna_ know if you know them. Running with Poison and Kobra's turned out to raise some fucking problems where your past's concerned, mostly 'cause you didn't mean to run with them at all, period. Never meant to stick around this long.

Safer inside the wave-haven. Places like these stand out. They're old-ass buildings, falling apart, probably never been touched since the Wars hit the Zones. Old wood paneling, rickety and crumbling, most of the roofs eaten away. They offer pretty minimal shelter to just about everything, and that's why the waveheads love 'em. Like to drape themselves over ramshackle furniture like cats and bathe in the rays and not say a goddamn thing to each other. Leave their shit lying all over the place.

Some lucky fucker in this sunhouse must've had a sweet tooth. You uncover a packet of pre-war candies, slender sticks encased in a faded red polypropylene packaging that labels them as _Sizzle Stix: cinnamon-flavored treats._ Whatever the fuck that means.

More important is the six-pack of Jump Juice that they've left lying near an armchair. None of the waveriders so much as twitch when you pick up your finds. It's the heat of midday. All of them're well and truly out of it.

You leave some bottled water in exchange. In case any of 'em remember how to wanna be human again. Nobody says a thing to you when you slip out.

But fuck it, it's like droids. These're people nobody else is gonna help, so you might as well give a shit about them, all right?

**\--**

**but sometimes, i swear i hear it, the wound closing  
like a rusted-over garage door**

**\--**

Pretty sure the soda's gone flat, not that you wanna find out. Flat soda tastes like shit. Most carbonation out here's burned up long before you was _born_ , you'll bet. You're trying to figure out how to bribe Kobra into taste-testing this shit for you when Poison sights someone down. You only register that they're angling the Trans Am on purpose once you see the silhouette limping along the side of the road. You dunno what the fuck's the reason behind it. Maybe they pity the son of a bitch, but you dunno. Their expression's the same as always. Way the hell too intense, but other than that, mostly unreadable.

Jet Star is a beat-up, worn-down, exhausted tumbleweed who's alone and on his last legs when the three of you meet him. You see this sunshine and you recognize the angle of his shoulders, the hunch of his neck, the grip on his gun. You recognize it 'cause you been the same way, time and time again. You look at this dust angel you ain't never seen before and you think of a kid who made it out into the Zones when he weren't even in his teens, ready to burn himself out like a solar flare against the sun. Think of a kid who nearly died several times over 'cause it wouldn't be no loss. Never took a gun to the side of their own head, that fucked up kid, but he never had to. Had plenty of people willing to do the same, free of charge.

You can tell that Poison picks up on all the same things you do - they look at him the same way.

Might be that's why they ain't cut you loose yet. 'Cause they read you the same way you can read this Zone-rat now and it struck something in them.

Poison leans outta the window a little and says, "hey. Headin' anywhere?"

That don't work. Their offer for a ride has the tumbleweed shaking his head, looking away. You see the bones pressing hard against the skin of his knuckles, blanching them yellow-white. His throat's tight. He looks like he ain't slept and like he's on the verge of filling himself with burn-holes and you dunno what the fuck's going on with him but you don't have to, 'cause you'd recognize that look anywhere. Worn it enough in the past to know it when you see it on someone else.

Poison ain't getting through to him and Kobra's still quiet. So you do the only thing you can think of to do, and that's lean outta the backseat and stick your head through the window and smile like the dipshit you are and say, "hey, asshole."

You dunno a lot in life but you know this: you let this zonerunner wander off into the great wide nothing, he won't never come back. He'll go 'till he hits the very edge of Zone Six and he'll fry himself alive in the radiation that lives there, or whatever the hell's out past the borders of the desert surrounding Bat City. He'll keep going 'till he can't anymore and that's what'll kill him.

You can read it like you can read the ink on your hands.

So you say, "hate to interrupt here, but you wanna wait on fillin' your head with lightning for a minute? I got this pack of Jump Juice here."

He stares at you. He keeps staring at you while you tell him you hate flat soda so you really _fucking_ need someone to taste test this six-pack of Jump Juice, all right? Kobra won't help you (you haven't gotten around to asking Kobra) and Poison don't drink soda while they're driving (you know full well they do but they don't contest it) so you need this motherfucker's help. That's the story you sell him. It takes ten seconds for you to fire this off at him while he keeps staring at you with this tiny divot forming between his brows like he dunno what to make of you. Whatever, right? You get that a lot.

You could say a lotta things. You look at this tumbleweed and you might be able to get him into the car and away from the lure of a quick and easy way out with any number of things but this were the first thing you thought of and y'know something? You think that'll be what does it, 'cause that's what got you to agree to live with a DJ in the middle of Zone Four. She said she could use your help. Something of this ragged, at-ends crash queen with nowhere to go and no crew and no direction hits you with the weight of a ten-ton pig bomb and you think you know enough about where he's at to know what to say to him next even if you dunno why you're bothering. Maybe it's 'cause Poison bothered with this dust angel the same way they bothered with you. Maybe it's 'cause you look at this sunshine and see every ounce of the exhaustion you've felt since the day you was born reflected back at you.

So that's what you start with. You start with _I need you._

Even if it's for something as simple as trying some flat-ass soda.

And Jet gets in the car.

**\--**

**and i can still move  
my living limbs into the world without too much pain**

**\--**

He's real quiet. Not a big deal, seeing as you knew plenty of people who was the same. Kinda gotta wonder what Poison gets outta picking up the guy, but you been wondering the same thing about yourself and now you gotta ask - is that what Party Poison does? Pick up _strays?_

The soda's flat. That don't stop you and Jet from drinking most of it while you talk Kobra's ear off and he tells you to quit being a pain in the ass in that vague half-hearted way that means he's actually kinda fine with it. There's enough bubbles in the drink for you to get away with burping into his ear. Jet's still in the car by the time Poison pulls over at a broken-down gas station to spend the night. You're on second watch on account of Kobra putting his foot down and trying to get Poison to catch more than a couple hours' sleep, which you ain't gonna complain about seeing as Poison's usually the one driving. Weeks of practice, and you're better than you was, but you're no Party Poison.

Like that's a surprise. You're better at taking cars apart than driving them. 

That's what you're thinking about when you're on the roof of the old-ass station, lighting up a smoke and trying to squint through the thick fog that chokes out all the stars. Your eyes ain't the best, but you can pick out a couple stray glimmers.

Jet Star's silhouette is obvious: tall, thick curly hair, looking constantly like he wants to be smaller than he is. He joins you on the roof once you catch him standing outside the station and staring out into the open road like he wants to bolt. 

Maybe he does. You know that look pretty goddamn well. Had it sit in your chest enough times.

You offer him your coffin nail, but he turns it down. Must've been around plenty of smokers in his life, 'cause he don't seem to mind the smell of it. Don't gag or cough or nothing like that. Lets you chatter at him for a few minutes, even if he don't say much. Not a big talker, this guy. He saves up his words for when he needs 'em. Only says something when it's important, real important, and it's the kinda thing that stops everything else dead in its tracks so you _listen_.

You learn this firsthand when he asks you, "why do you stay?" and it's so unexpected that you gotta laugh. You laugh and it coils up a finger of molten grease in the crook of your stomach.

"Why d'you _think?"_ 'Cause they both put up with your shit. 'Cause they never told you to up and _leave_ yet. 

'Cause Poison laughed so hard it cracked their hard-shelled, fearless exterior and they snorted and it was the funniest goddamn thing in the world. 'Cause Kobra hollered louder than anything when you showed him how a glass bottle and a rag can set a whole building alight. 'Cause Poison threw a patch at you and said they hoped you could sew. 'Cause Kobra saw a shirt and thought of you and flung it over your head.

'Cause you look at the both of them and you know what the hitch and jag in the center of your chest means. It means trouble. It means you're in too deep. It means that you can't run 'cause you got nowhere else you can go and, more importantly, nowhere else you'd rather be.

You don't say any of that.

"They ain't kicked me out yet," is what you say instead.

How the hell else do you put any of it into words?

Jet keeps looking at you. He's got fatigue in every line of his body. He couldn't sleep inside and he don't look like he'd get much sleep out here either.

You tell him that none of you are the types to try and make him stay if he don't wanna. He nods, but this whole time he hasn't said a thing other than those four words and by the time he climbs off the roof again and leaves you to your watch, that's all he's said aloud.

Your instincts on him turn out to be bang on, 'cause the next day he's still there. Sure, he ain't a talker and sure, he's a stoic motherfucker who locks himself down tighter than Kobra does. He don't intervene when you all get at each other's throats - when Poison decides to be a little bitch and give orders like everybody's gonna follow 'em. He only watches, dead quiet. He sits and stares out the window when you're on the move and sometimes he dozes in the backseat, a thing you only catch when you see him jerking awake in the blink of an eye, a spasm of a hypnic jerk that's almost invisible in the ambient jar and jostle of a moving car. 

Like you, he's the kinda guy who wakes silent and wakes quick. His drobe's almost entirely black, save for the tricolored smear on the back of his jacket, a symbol in blue, white, and red. He navigates the desert like it's second nature. He's wide awake in the mornings and evenings, restive and twitchy in the midday and the night.

You know the look of someone who wakes restless. It's the same behavior that's stalked you your whole life.

Jet Star can shoot a can off the hood of the car from two hundred meters. His hands don't shake like yours, or Kobra's, or Poison's. He's a better shot than anybody you've ever met.

You reward him with that package of Sizzle Stix you picked up from the waveheads, split it between you and him. The candies're kinda chewy, probably stale, but you can't be real picky about sugar out here. Not a whole lot of it. Gotta savor it when it comes.

Jet's expression scrunches up a little when he tries one, his nose wrinkling.

"Y'hate it, don't ya?"

No answer. He's putting on a brave face, tonguing the sickly sweet, sawdust-y cling of stale sugar and preservatives.

You laugh so hard your whole body bucks.

"Kobra weren't lyin'." You wink. "This shit's been in my pockets for weeks."

Jet lifts one eyebrow at you. Might not be a chatty guy, but you'll give him this: he can do a lot with a little. One lift of his eyebrows can tell you that not only are you kinda being a fuckbucket but that you should feel bad for wasting his time with your fuckbucketry. You can't even be mad when he does all this without saying a goddamn word and then walks away. He tells you with no words what'd take Poison twenty, half of them expletives chewed out through fire and venom.

"Hey, if you don't want 'em, just _say so,"_ you call after him. You spoil the effect when you can't quit laughing.

Takes one to know one: he's gotta cover his mouth with one hand, like he's hiding a smile.

**\--**

**can still marvel at how the dog runs straight  
toward the pickup trucks break-necking down the road**

**\--**

Kinda like the case with you, it's hard to tell why Poison keeps Jet around. But you ain't the new kid anymore, so it counts for something that now he's somebody you got that in common with. You sight him staring out the window, looking away into the desert like he's keen on running. He don't stand like you, somebody who's ready to redline out whenever things go Costa Rica. He just looks kinda lost.

The symbol on the back of his jacket's a flag, red-and-white stripes and white stars on a field of blue. He's got a helmet in all black 'cept for the lightning bolt painted on the side in yellow. He's the best shot in the crew, better even than Party Poison. He knows how to handle a ray-burn and how to hold his own in a firefight. He ain't used to Poison's direction. First time you see him in action, he gets shot up 'cause he were busy holding off the dracs coming at you and only got into the car when you yelled for him to haul ass. He's the tallest by far, built solid in a way nobody else is. He stares at you when you come at him from the side so that you're always in his periphery and when you're careful not to touch him 'till you know he don't mind it.

You doze off in the backseat and wake up slouched against Jet's shoulder hours later. You play it off with a laugh and a wink - "hope I didn't drool on ya or nothin'." But the fact that he didn't push you away or tell you to go fuck yourself or that he don't look even vaguely bothered about it is kinda new. That'd be a fucking first.

Like everybody else in the Trans Am, Jet's got an unrepentant love for the Mad Gear and Missile Kid. You'll forgive him for ranking anything else higher than _SkeleTon KreW,_ 'cause _TROMOTIZED_CONDITIONS_ deserves the number one spot on _any_ list of banging tunes that Mad Gear's blessed the Zones with, no matter what the fuck Party Poison says.

 _Troma_ were the first record you heard in the seat of this Trans Am. It were the first record you heard in this crew, even if you didn't know it were gonna be your crew yet. It deserves the number one spot for that alone, but you don't fucking say it. Nobody needs to know that.

Jet rides with you. Poison lets it happen. You and Kobra, you fall into place and let the rhythm take you where you gotta go. Even if it takes you to Tommy fucking Chow Mein's.

You're willing and ready to sit out yet another stop outside Tommy's 'till you look up at whoever else is streaming in to take some of Chow Mein's crap deals and - goddamnit. Goddamnit. You _know_ one of the motherfuckers milling around outside.

That's Agent MT. 

He's chatting with some of his pals and he ain't seen you yet and y'know what? Fuck it. You're gonna set foot in Tommy Chow Mein's for the first time in months, 'cause for all the shit that he's probably gonna give you when he sees you, he at least ain't gonna let anybody start anything inside, right? He's got no way of knowing whether you was the shithead that stole that monster mask of his, and you know what? He don't _need_ to know. You're in a fucking gang now. MT's still hanging around outside, not paying any goddamn attention to you. Need to move quick before that changes.

You tail Poison for a minute when you enter behind them. Tommy skewers them with a cold look. They nod to him coolly and start browsing. You slip around and start poking in search for battery packs, find yourself a plastic bag full of the things. You catch a molten look from Tommy once he realizes you're there, but he don't say nothing and you don't pay him no mind. If he wants to raise a stink, he can be the fucker to throw the first punch.

When you get close enough to his counter, he leans forward like he's about to say something. You swerve away sharp. Can sense his eyes prickling on the back of your head, can feel him just _waiting_ for an excuse to fling you out. He's got a clear eye on you the whole time. No place to hide in the shelves.

Dead ahead, there's Jet and Kobra, looking things over. Kobra's got an armful of spraypaint cans. Jet's standing there uncertainly like he dunno what to do with himself.

You spot it on one of the clothing racks - a bandanna in red and white and blue, patterned the same way as the back of Jet's jacket. You dunno what that symbol means personally, but you like the look of it and it's notable 'cause it's the only splotch of real color Jet's got. It's enough of an excuse to keep Tommy's eyes off you.

"Check this shit," you tell Jet and Kobra both when you bound over to them, holding up the strip of cloth with a grin. Comes easy. Always comes so fucking easy. "Me 'n Jet can _match."_

Jet rubs one hand over his mouth like he's trying to suppress a smile. It's obvious when he wants to crack a smirk. He's goddamn terrible at hiding it.

You're gonna consider that a win. The guy's way the hell too _sad_ all the time, all right? Like, sure, maybe you picked him up off the side of the road and he looked like he were about ready to end it all, but c'mon, that's no excuse to let him mope.

Point is that it's harder to get picked on in a group, and when the fuck'd that happen? You was always an easy target. Alone, small, young - and now you got this bandanna that matches Jet's jacket, a little guarantee that you're part of this _group_ now. For a dumb distraction, it sure knots something up in the core of you. 

_No takebacks._

Play it off. Smile. It's a little joke, a fun gimmick. Line up and join the _flag gang,_ everybody. Crack a smile and no one's gotta think twice about it.

Stick near Jet. 'Long as you stick near Jet, no one's gonna fuck with you. _You scared?_ MT ain't seen you. He won't _never_ see you if you can help it.

Turns out Jet's also got a real head for numbers, 'cause he sorts the change in record time. Who fucking knew? Maybe you should've figured that out when you saw that helmet of his. It's one's built _sturdy,_ don't have any of the hallmarks of being modified save for the lightning bolt on the side. But hey, everybody's got their ways of handling the bad air in the Zones. There's shittons of it out here, ever since Battery City started pumping limeade clouds into the fucking sky. Get yourself a lungful of poison air and you're choking on your own spit for hours, maybe days. Only seen it in person from a distance, thank fuck.

You remember the reports. Remember hearing them, when GoGo had to start issuing those warnings.

Point is, you've all got your rebreathers. Poison's is in their Mousekat head. Kobra's got one in his _GOOD LUCK_ helmet. You, you've got your monster mask. And Jet's got that fucking space-dome.

"Look at this guy!" you crow the first time Jet slides it on. "Regular fuckin' spaceman, ain't ya?"

Jet flips you off. Your mask don't muffle your laugh.

Your PTTP buzzes with BLND freqs more and more these days. The airwaves claim it's BLi, sending these artificial flies into the atmosphere for surveillance 'cause the satellites weren't enough. Like they didn't have enough eyes in the sky already.

You don't tune into GoGo's frequency. You know it by heart, know the station you'd gotta listen to. She has the best news faster than anybody and maybe you're a fucking idiot for not listening in on that but - 

It don't fucking matter, all right? You can get your news from all the other DJs. There might not be a lot of 'em in the Zones, but there's enough for you to get by. It's the ISI, some DJs say as they drizzle their commentary over pirated Fact News broadcasts and reissue them to the Zones. International Surveillance Initiative, based in the Junction. Whatever the fuck that means.

Poison keeps the radio on. Usually it's Dr. Death offering reports on the states of things. You recognize his tone, his steady drawl. Sounds exactly the goddamn same as when you first heard him admonishing you for not being properly _thankful_ that Show Pony picked you up outta the dirt.

It's 'cause Poison stays tuned in that you all know that there's a couple crews that ain't all that fond of the gang you're running in. And it _is_ a gang now, like it or not. You gotta flag for a bandanna and you fall into place beside the other three, so you're well and truly fucked now. Means you share enemies. You don't recognize all the crews on Poison's shitlist, but when Dr. D's latest broadcast brings up _the Demon-Sharks_ that's a reminder that you went and dragged a whole new rival crew into their lives. One they didn't need.

Apparently the Sharks've got a hell of a vendetta with the rest of you after the Kobra Kid humiliated their leader. They been searching out the four of you specifically.

The Zones're all fractured since the Wars ended. That's the story on air. Killjoys, they were soldiers, revolutionaries, banded together to shoot the eyes outta the BL/ind. Now they're all in groups and gangs, at each other's throats, brawling for territory and fighting over the same scraps from the BLi supply convoys.

Be real nice to think that the Demon-Sharks would've come for everybody's asses even if you wasn't there to motivate them.

But you know that ain't true.

**\--**

**because she thinks she loves them  
because she’s sure**

**\--**

"We're gearin' up," says Poison. "Now."

That morning, Kobra decided to be a dumb fuck and keep the Demon-Sharks off all of your backs by going off to meet them on his own. You kinda had to wonder why the fuck Poison would agree to a batshit idea like that one 'till Poison lost their shit and nearly broke the Trans Am window when they heard the news. So Kobra _didn't_ get Poison to agree to it, but rather just went and _did_ it without telling nobody and the rest of you only found out thanks to an early-morning transmission calling out a disturbance with the Sharks over by the Gunpowder Gulch in Three. Raised a hell of a fucking ruckus, says the DJ.

Place is shot-up and all but deserted when you reach it. The three of you case the area but there's nobody. No bodies, nothing but a shitton of burn streaks and charred rocks.

Naturally, Poison don't like that.

"Fuck. _Fuck!"_ You ain't never seen them like this. Poison spins around, kicks the corner of a rust-red rock jutting out like a fang from the dirt. Their boot crunches up against the thing several times over before they storm away, seething.

Jet's standing there like he dunno what the fuck to say 'cause the leader's gone off the shits and Kobra ain't fucking here. Guess the job falls to _you_ to hold Party Poison's goddamn hand, like you'd be any fucking good at that. What the fuck do you say to that? _Sorry?_ 'Cause it's kinda your fault their brother's missing and all, seeing as the Demon-Sharks would've never crossed Poison if you wasn't with them. Pretty goddamned sure of that.

Poison stands facing the road, shoulders juddering up and down as they breathe heavy.

"Hey. P. C'mon. _Tranquilo,_ yeah?"

"Don't fuckin' call me that." They whip-crack it out at you, just short of a snarl.

All right. Fine. Playing it light and easy won't cut it.

'Cause you're a ballsy motherfucker who don't have a problem with crossing the lines other people set, you walk on up to them 'till you're facing them. They look right through you.

There's a million and one goddamn things you could say. Most of them're shitty jokes and Poison might laugh at your bullshit but they don't look very much like laughing now. You know what they look like when they're smiling 'cause Kobra laughed so hard he was doubled over, almost coughing. You know what they look like when they see Kobra shouting, loud and _elated_ , on the rare chance one of you can coax that outta him.

You pick through and discard every single option you think of 'till you're left with the one and that's really all you got, so:

"We're gonna find him." You kinda don't mean to say it the way you do, like it ain't a big deal. Probably mean a lot more if you sounded like you _meant_ it and not like you're commenting on the fucking traffic or whatever the hell. But Poison looks at you.

You, uh, got no clue what comes after that. Ordinarily you'd do something like grab their shoulder or but Poison reacts to somebody touching them unwanted like they was just bitten by a venomous spider so even though you feel like a complete fucking tool you do the next best thing and hold out a hand.

They clasp it, squeeze once. There's calluses worked into their skin, rubbing against the thick leather of their fingerless gloves. They look at you dead on and for once it ain't so hard to meet their eyes.

"Yeah," says Poison, so quiet you almost don't catch it. "Yeah. We'll find him."

It takes you three days to track the Kid down from the shootout in the Gulch, but the Witch don't prove you a liar. She must have Her eye on Kobra or one of you or something, 'cause you find him. But he also don't look so good, so maybe the Witch weren't as involved as you'd like to think.

"Fuck," whispers Poison as soon as they clap eyes on him. _"KOBRA!"_

They don't waste any goddamn time. They're on him in a second, sprinting dead ahead. Jet swears under his breath but he don't break cover 'cause there's no way of knowing if this is a trap or not and y'know what? You're inclined to agree with that instinct. You can't get a clear shot of Kobra from here but he's lying facedown and that's definitely blood on his clothes and in his hair and you're willing to bet at least some of it's his.

"Clear?" You're pretty sure you're clear but you're checking with Jet first 'cause he's got better eyes than you.

He nods.

Poison's still got their gun out, for all the goddamn good that does. Their hands hover anxiously over their brother like they're scared to touch him and once you get close you can see why. There's deep slashes carved into him, a knife still stuck in one arm. It just out like a line of broken bone. Blood glistens in a congealed pool near his stomach. 

"He's breathin'," says Poison, low. The words're taut. "Fuck, somebody - should we - should we move him?"

"No." Jet kneels down beside them. There's a frown digging in between his brows. A thing like that's the only way you know he's upset and it's 'cause you've run with him a while that you know it's gnawing at him. He's treated his own raygun burns enough for you to know he knows a thing or two about patching somebody up. Of the three of you, Jet's probably the one who knows what the fuck to do here.

"Fuck. What've we got in the trunk? Bandages?" Poison ain't looking at you when they say it. Jet glances up, frowns at you.

Sure, why not? Time to be somebody's fucking runner again. Old rags for bandages, rubbing alcohol, frayed thread - definitely not enough to handle someone who's been through the fucking wringer the way the Kid has.

"Shit. _Shit."_ Poison keeps jittering on the spot, like they wanna help, wanna grab Kobra off the ground and flip him over, but Jet's the one handling it, gently peeling the blood-stiff cuff of Kobra's jacket away from the skin. Clearly it's fucking killing them to sit there watching but you're pretty sure trying to pull them away'll net you a fist to the fucking face. What the hell else can you do except the shit you're used to, running supplies to and from the fucking car? Sure. You're a pair of legs and a pair of hands, and that's what matters, right? Fuck you.

Jet's not saying anything. He don't usually say a whole lot so, uh, that don't mean anything about whether or not Kobra's gonna be okay, yeah? Probably?

"Jet?" Poison says edgily.

Jet looks at them. The knit of his eyebrows is enough to shut them up. They stand and start pacing instead, circling the pair of them like something caged.

"Goddamnit. Goddamnit." Their fingers curl and uncurl, forming fists and unclenching again. Their knuckles glisten bone-white. This lasts for maybe ten minutes before, again, it all boils the fuck over and they head back to their brother lying prone on the ground. "Jet, _talk to me."_

"Don't know yet," says Jet, terse. "Need supplies."

Poison screws their eyes shut for a minute.

"Yeah. Okay. Okay." Two seconds. "Ghoul, you're takin' the car."

Fuck no. "Why, so you can harass Jet while he tries to _help?"_ Poison's the one with the nervous energy to burn. The fuck do they expect you to do?

"Sharks could be back any minute and I ain't leaving my brother to them, all right?" says Poison. The words're too taut. It's dangerous to pick a fight with them when their calm's frayed all to hell like this.

"Fuck off," you mutter. "The Sharks is my problem."

"They made themselves my problem when they fucked with my crew," snaps Poison. They got no clue what fucking effect those words have on you 'cause no matter how many times someone says it, _our own, my crew, one of us,_ it never fucking feels right. You know how it _works_ by now. That's what everybody says before it all goes wrong. It's gonna come crashing to the ground, right fucking now. You're gonna do something, say something, and any second it'll get ripped apart and then you'll be fucking tossed to the curb again 'cause that's how it goes, all right? You know how this fucking story plays out. Been in it enough times to know that a situation like this only lasts for as long as you're convenient and then they'll fucking drop you. _Right?_

There's a hand on yours, pushing something against your fingers. Takes you a second to register that it's Poison, pressing the keys of the Trans Am into your hand.

"Take the car." There's this tiny tremor in their voice that you ain't never heard from them before and fuck you but it's always goddamn hard to meet their eyes, to meet _anyone's_ eyes at all but their eyes especially and especially now. Like they don't wanna look at you but got nowhere else to look and - fuck. _Fuck._ "I need Jet here, and I can't..."

They can't leave. Can't leave, in case the Kid don't make it.

Right.

You seen too many souls shuffled off to the Witch. You've carried your share of masks to Her mailboxes. It ain't right to look at someone and know they'll never laugh or talk or do any of the shit they usually do again, but you grew up with death nestled in the streets of the Lobby beside you so that don't bother you. That don't fucking bother you. Why should it? You don't - it wouldn't surprise you if the Kobra Kid never got up and walked away from this.

It wouldn't.

So why's it feel like a hand on your throat, a pressure over your chest? You can't look at him and you can't look at _Jet_ and you can barely look at Party fucking Poison with their eyes hard and pleading 'cause Party Poison never looks fucking _pleading_ and goddamnit. Goddamnit. Fuck. 

As if you could say no to that.

"'Kay." You take the keys.

Poison breathes out once, tight and quiet.

"I need you to head to the Smokin' Cesspit. It's in Four. These killjoys, the Burn-Flingers, they hang around there when they ain't doin' runs on the Bat. Leader's this luneshine, goes by 'Riptide.' They'll trade with you if you say you're with me, all right? They know me, they'll trade...they'll know I'm good for it. Show 'em - here." They pass you their mask. "Show 'em this. They'll know you're with me. If they give you trouble just tell 'em they owe me for the Backburner."

They talk fast, like every second you ain't driving out there's another second that the Kid's life is leaking away beneath Jet's fingers.

Maybe it is.

You motor out with Party Poison's soul in your hands, driving their livelihood to a crew who don't know you're coming and who you've never met.

Your heart thuds sour in your throat, makes your breath taste stale and fermented.

Can't stop turning it over in your head. Can't quit letting it sink into your fucking brain, the Kobra Kid lying limp in a way he should never be, 'cause the Kid is kinetic motion in a bottle, poured into something like six feet of sunburn and scar tissue, he's tension coiled in every nerve and tendon. He's a fucking beanpole of lean muscle and bone and a shuttered stare and a stiffness that ain't stiffness so much as it's a grace that takes everybody off guard 'cause he don't look like he should be capable of it. So it don't make any goddamn sense to see him lying there, taken out in close quarters. Those were slashes sunk into his skin, like someone had a knife and let him have it. Kobra's better at hand to hand than anybody you've fucking met. He can snap drac necks quick and easy. He can put someone bigger and broader and meatier than him in a headlock and lever them to the ground.

Now he's cut up and bleeding and the last time you drove like a stung petrolhead to save somebody's life it didn't fucking go over well, did it?

All right, so you fucking panicked when it was GoGo and she was fine. This'll be fine.

 _Cut it out. Focus. Focus,_ motherfucker.

You got nothing. No distractions. Nothing but the radio cutting in and out while you blip through the Zones with the roar of a '79 Trans Am engine sucking down fuel, chewing up road beneath the tires. You're stuck thinking on NewsAGoGo, how you set fire to every advantage you had just for a chance to help her, to save her, to do _something_ other than sit there and let her fucking bleed out. What're you doing now, huh? What the fuck're you doing now?

Poison gave you their mask and their car. They handed you their whole identity. They put it in your hands 'cause they - 

Not fucking going there. It's 'cause it was the Kid. That's why. It's the Kobra Kid at stake and with him at stake Poison's gonna do whatever the fuck they need to keep him breathing. Even if that means giving away everything they are. Don't have nothing to do with you being who and what you are 'cause you're nothing, you're _nobody_ to them, you're not trustworthy, you're not fucking _capable,_ and given the option of anybody else you got no doubt that it would've _been_ anybody else but you're the only other person who drives the Trans Am semi-regularly and that's why Poison handed it off to you. You know what it's like to see someone bleeding out and be willing to do whatever the fuck it takes to save them. That's what this is. That's _all_ this fucking is.

You drive 'till you hit the Smoking Cesspit. You've passed it a few times before, but never for very long. It's a venue, the kinda place Zone bands like to throw concerts at or, apparently, the kinda place that killjoys use to lay low when the BLi heat's too high. Not a real good fucking sign of whether or not the Burn-Flingers're gonna show. You prowl the perimeter, case the place, but there's nothing inside or out except a couple waveheads and you're gonna leave those poor bastards alone. They don't got the look of killjoys so you figure they ain't Riptide's people. Which, y'know, sure, plenty of killjoys happen to be wavies, but it's usually pretty obvious when that's the case. You've had practice, watching GoGo's agents. Getting pulverized by GoGo's agents.

You sit in the car. You gotta wait this out, 'cause killjoys tend to roam and wander and if they have haunts they stop by you never know when they're gonna visit next. It's impossible to sit still through it. Your legs bounce, you sweat in the heat of the driver's seat, and you could fucking - you could take this car, turn it around, head out into the dust and _never fucking look back._ The temptation to say _fuck this, fuck all of them_ and steal away with the car eats at your fucking soul.

_No one's fucking stopping you._

This is what you wanted, yeah? Wanted to get this car off a pair of killjoys and run.

So why the fuck don't you?

_Just go. Just go. Just fucking go, c'mon, just GO -_

Something keeps you stuck in place. Dunno what.

_Better not to think about it._

Takes them about a day and a half, but eventually the Burn-Flingers show. 'Least, you figure it's them. There's five total. Most of them hang back, milling around their contingent of motorcycles and muttering to themselves as they dart you a whole mess of looks. Everything from curiosity to hostility. You must really stand out. Yeah, keep chatting to yourselves, assholes. That ain't nothing new.

"I know you?" Their spokesperson is tall, black, dreads dyed a deep blue. They slide a pair of sunglasses off their nose and look you up and down, slow and easy.

Can't say you recognize them. With your track record being what it is, that's a good thing. Every crew you've ever touched has gone Costa Rica and it's always been your fault. No fucking arguments there.

"No." How the fuck're you supposed to be the ambassador here? That's not what you fucking do. People don't ask you to speak for them. People don't _trust_ you to. They involve you when they need something blown up or when they need someone to fix something and you're mostly gonna manage the former 'cause you're only any good at fucking things up. And there's the fucking expectation that you're supposed to be the guy that gets something that'll fix the Kobra Kid and _why would Poison ask that of you, of all people._

The burner frowns at you, their hand dropping for their raygun. From the way they're the talker, you'd have to guess that this'd be Riptide.

How the fuck're you supposed to do this? You ain't capable of anything but being inflammatory, being a fucking nail in someone else's side. You got Poison's mask and you hold it up and it occurs to you that it ain't gonna be enough, 'cause the way you're acting right now these people're gonna think that Poison's been ghosted.

"They need med supplies." You're fucking trying here. Fucking trying to not be the incendiary piece of shit you always are. "Said you...owe 'em for the Backburner?"

Riptide snorts. "As if."

"We covered that debt," says a crash queen at their back, spiky-haired and scowling. "We don't owe Poison jack."

But the leader's shoulders relax a little. That's why Poison told you to bring it up, you figure. So they'd know that you're with them, know them personal, and that you didn't just grab their shit and highway out.

"You got medical gear or not?" Guess it falls to you to stay on topic. What a godawful fucking choice in diplomat you are. What the fuck've you got that's worth a trade for something medical? Poison probably ain't gonna care, 'long as it saves Kobra's life. "We can trade you or owe you, or whatever."

Riptide don't say anything for a minute. Then, "don't remember seeing you before."

"I'm in their crew." You say it before you can register whether you should and now that you've said it you can't fucking claw it back. Poison said it first. _Poison said it first._ Still ignites a cold spark in the heart of you, a dread that it'll be obvious it's a lie and then they'll all beat the shit outta you for pretending you goddamn _belonged_ anyplace. For saying you're one of them. Like god themself'll incinerate you with a bullet of holy steel.

Guess god's pretty slow today. You're still standing.

"Poison sent you for medical gear," says Riptide. "...didn't come themself. That ain't like them."

"Shit went Costa Rica and we're clean outta what we need." That's still the truth without drawing back the curtain too far, yeah? "Like I said, I'll - I can owe ya."

It ain't threatening to burn down Tommy's shop, 'cause while you never seen Poison get to that point before, they trusted _you_ with this so you can't fuck this up. _If they didn't want somebody to fuck it up they shouldn't've sent you._

Shut up. Focus. Fucking _focus._

"Riptide," says the burner, tapping their chest. Sounds like you guessed right. "Luneshine. Burn-Flingers're my crew."

"Fun Ghoul. Uh...no preference. 'M with Poison." Feels like a fucking lie. Keep waiting for them to call you on it. They don't. _Why the hell do they believe you?_

"Nitro," calls Riptide without looking away from you, "pretty sure we just scored some fancy new gear meant for the doctors in Bat City. What d'you say we load some of that up for them?"

Any minute now it's gonna go wrong. It's gonna go so fucking wrong. They're gonna yank the rug out from under you and laser-blast a hole in your head, or you're gonna get back too late and Kobra's dusted 'cause you didn't fucking _hurry this shit up._ You won't be able to pay them back and they're gonna tell you _tough shit_. It always goes wrong. It always fucking goes _wrong_ with you, you piece of shit, you fucking animal, you - 

"Tell Poison they owe us," says Riptide. Their smile is thin and wry, and then they turn to their crew. "All right. Let's get what we came for."

They don't keep you. You wait for them to shoot out the tires or change their minds or chase you down, do _something_ other than let you drive away with clean, quality medical gear that was destined for the Better Living doctors. This isn't how it fucking works. You touch things and they corrode, they go sideways, they go _off the goddamn rails._ For the first time in your life something's going smooth which means it's only a matter of time 'till it don't anymore.

But Kobra's still alive when you reach him, even if Poison and Jet're looking a little worse for wear. The Sharks ambushed them. Guess that's what they get for trusting you to do this job quick.

Poison stands shakily, grips your shoulder tight with one hand. They look pale and drawn, a fresh wrap of bandage around the crook of their arm.

"You got it?"

"Yeah." You wanna ask what the fuck happened here but there's a relief on Poison's face that's fucking _painful_ to witness 'cause Party Poison don't ever look _relieved._ "Yeah. I got it."

They twitch like they're gonna do something more, but they only shake their head and drop down and ask Jet if they can move Kobra yet. You help them get the Kid over to the car where they can bandage him up proper.

A couple Sharks're lying still in the dust. You let Jet and Poison patch the Kid the rest of the way up and walk 'till you hit a cooling body with a face you remember.

"Hey, Demon Daze." You pick up his mask, shake the dirt from the cloth. "Guess you didn't need me to get yourself shot this time."

He lies there and stares sightlessly at the midday sky, the heat beaming down from above that'll dry him out and stick his skin to his bones 'till some zonerunner happens along and picks his corpse clean or BL/ind decides to bag him up.

You fold up his mask and tuck it in your pocket.

Maybe the Witch'll take better care of him than you did.

**\--**

**without a doubt  
that the loud roaring things will love her back**

**\--**

Didn't think you had it in you to do something right for once but don't let it go to your head, you little shit. Most of the time you can talk waveheads down from fucking up you and yours. Jet, he gets real tense around wavies. His trigger finger gets real twitchy. You dunno why but you can fucking guess since waveheads can be more dangerous than dracs if they wanna be. They're no whitejackets or scarecrows but they generally got better aim than the dracs do, which ain't saying much. _You've_ got a better aim than dracs do. Anybody with two brain cells to rub together does.

This group of wavies is pissed 'cause it's the winter and it's been a week of acid storms with no sun. They're withdrawing. They're not interested in hearing you tell them that the sun'll be back if they wait it out. They're frayed to the point of hostility. If they take it out on any of the other three you know it'll probably end with the wavies dusted. That's why you take the knifecuts to the arms the way you do. You was expecting that, but you wasn't expecting one of them to try grabbing your gun once you hit the dirt.

That's enough to set the other three off. Poison drags you back upright to the chirp of laser fire. The blood runs in hot trickles down your arms. Pain's abrupt enough that it's taking your nerves a minute to catch up. You take advantage of the numb to grab a fistful of Poison's jacket to keep yourself steady, and they haul you to cover.

"The fuck were you thinkin'?" Poison grabs your arms, none too fucking gently. You can't keep the reflexive hiss from curling outta your gritted teeth. One slash runs from your inner elbow to the base of your wrist. Another's dug up a flap of skin on your forearm. Crimson runs over your tattoos in shimmering ribbons. Blots out all the color. Fuck. _Gonna fuck up your ink._

Getting kinda dizzy here.

"Shit." Poison don't waste any time. They curse you out for being a dumbass with the same careful, focused precision they use in cleaning off the red and knitting you together. Needle through skin, like the symbol you got on the back of your hand. Like every time you've gotten color and shade bled onto you. Needles don't fucking bother you like they used to. Maybe 'cause out here it's people you know holding them, people you know doing what they can to keep you alive. 

Your arms're getting numb and slippery. Poison swears every time they miss a stitch. You're kinda feeling like you're gonna puke and at some point you must've sat down but you can't remember doing it. That ain't a good sign.

Jet and Kobra do a good job of chasing those wavies off without you. Ghost most of them. Kind of a shame.

"Weren't doin' nothin' wrong," you slur while Kobra helps you into the car.

"Ghoul, they cut up your arms," says Kobra.

 _"Pff._ Like I ain't done worse."

There's a moment where everybody lets that sit. Maybe they're trying not to be fucking horrified. More likely they got no metric for how to react to that. Then Poison calls you a dumbass and Jet calls you lucky for not bleeding out.

Lucky. Guess that'd be a fucking word for it. You sorta think it's the other thing.

Doing demo work with arms all sliced up and nerves shot to hell is kinda maybe not your best idea ever. A couple times, you don't realize you've torn open a line of stitching 'till the fresh red's oozing down to your the point of your elbow.

"Quit fuckin' up your stitches," Poison snaps. "You want that shit to reopen?"

Jet starts redoing the threads for you instead. His hands is steadier than anybody's you've ever seen. You was wondering for a while, but you're pretty goddamn sure he were born out here. He's got an instinct for the desert that lets him take things in stride when it always takes you and Poison and Kobra a second to adjust. Sure, he could've escaped the city real early...but, nah. You don't really think that. You think this dust angel's never tasted what BLi's meds'll do to you.

He trims the last line of stitching and starts packing the needle and string away. You shoot him your best winning smile.

"Thanks, spaceman."

Jet's eyes narrow slightly in that very particular way of his that means _shut the fuck up._

The thread dug into your arm messes with the dark ink spotted across the skin. That's incentive enough to quit dicking around and let the damn cuts heal, but that were _before_ Kobra and you looted a ruined warehouse and you uncovered a jar of something that smells...huh. You dunno _what_ it is. Kobra finds a couple stickers to slap on the Trans Am, which has started building up quite the look between the layers of color that he and Poison throw on it and the letters they fix to the dash and the bumper. It's starting to stand out, look real tricked out and _shiny._ Like a real killjoy's car.

He can keep the stickers. You, you got...whatever the fuck's in this jug. Not sure. That night, while everybody's winding down after trading dinner and idle chatter, you study the embers of the fire that were your responsibility to light up for the night. Jet's poking at the glowing coals with a stick while the flames gutter lower and lower, but the fact that you made this fire entitles you to mess with it a little, right?

You tip a good slosh from the jug into the fire. Either it'll light it up or put it out, and that'll tell you all you need to know about whether or not it's worth keeping.

The flames _whoosh_ to life in a rush. The coals instantly reignite and a column of fire shoots into the fucking air.

"Oh, shit."

"Jesus!"

"What the fuck?"

The heat nearly blinds you for a second. You shut your eyes so the technicolor imprint of the inferno scalds your shut lids. You're laughing, loud and erratic, the sheer force of the heat throwing you flat on your ass.

"Shit - Jet!" Poison pulls you out of it for a second 'cause there's a note of warning in their tone that ain't usually there. It takes you a second to realize why they're pointing and holy fuck you fucking set Jet's hair on fire. You set his fucking hair on fire. Jet swears, drops flat to the ground and starts frantically beating the tongues of flame licking at the ends of his curls. The air stinks of burnt hair.

_You fucking maniac. What's wrong with you?_

You can't quit laughing. Why the fuck can't you quit laughing? _Never could._ This isn't funny. This isn't fucking funny but you can't make yourself stop. 

_Maybe it's a little funny._

_"Hijo de puta."_ Jet chases you, trying to kick you in the shins for lighting his goddamn hair on fire. He bruises you up a couple times in the ribs but he cuts it out when you end up on the ground, struggling to catch your breath so you can run and laugh at the same time.

So guess that shit's flammable. Can't exactly fix that you burned off a couple inches of Jet's hair and he's glitched off about it for a few days but you can make it up to him by showing him how Trans Am maintenance goes. If he's gonna run with this crew, he's gotta know this shit, all right? Jet don't drive much and he only knows enough about cars to get by so you show him how you and Kobra juiced up the engines and how to keep that motor running even when the parts're worn down all to hell.

Far as you're concerned, Jet's one of you now, and when did you start thinking of yourself as a part of this crew, anyway? You been in crews before. Never works out. Never fucking works out, but this is the longest anyone's put up with you. Don't wanna say it and don't wanna think it 'cause first of all, this is as good as it's ever been and that's kinda really fucking sad, and second all, you don't wanna fucking jinx it. You're bad luck enough as is.

But sure. Jet's one of you now. He's the sharpshooter the crew needs. He's shit at driving, even worse at throwing a punch, but he's reassuringly solid and when he has your back he fucking _has_ your back. He'll pick you up when you're shot and bleeding on the ground and he'll grip your hand tight to pull you to your feet. He can stitch wounds and draw blood and sometimes he mutters shit in Spanish when he's particularly pissed but you don't think he knows he does it. He leans into people when they lean into him and you don't think he knows he does that either. Kinda did it by accident the first time, head slumped against his shoulder while you tapped out after a long day, but Jet didn't so much as flinch. Poison might be twitchy about who gets to lay hands on them but Jet ain't. He don't mind it when you nudge him and you don't mind it when he braces an elbow on your shoulder to lean on you.

Pretty sure Poison and Kobra feel like he's one of them too. Poison can get a couple hours' sleep while he's on watch, which is how you know that they've decided he's a part of the gang, 'cause they don't fall asleep in the same area as somebody they don't trust. He and Kobra make a real fucking duo in a clap - Jet picking off dracs from a distance with Kobra wailing on them front and center. So yeah, you figure they've kinda assumed he's one of the crew. You just dunno if _Jet_ knows. Still catch him staring out at the roads sometimes.

He's too quiet and you're too loud. He still flips you off when you call him "spaceman." When your hair gets tangled up in your face he braids it for you like it's no big deal and he does a real damn good job at it. He's got steadier hands than anybody else you've ever met and you're ninety-percent sure he grew up in the Zones.

"Hey, spaceman," you mutter, sat with him on the hood of the Trans Am while Poison and Kobra're asleep in the seats.

Jet glances at you. He manages to convey with a quirk of his eyebrow that he's real fucking sick of you calling him that.

"Thanks for stickin' with us." You bump a fist against his arm, light and easy. "Y'make a damn good killjoy, anybody ever tell you that?"

He shakes his head, expression closing.

"Then y'been running with fuckin' dipshits." Not that it makes him special. God knows you've run with plenty of bad crews yourself. Fit right in, being a real motherfucker yourself, right up 'till you didn't. "No shortage of those out here."

Jet raises both eyebrows.

"Shut up, y'know what I mean."

Jet continues to look at you.

"I take it back. You're a fucking _dick."_

He smirks very slightly.

Yeah, god. No way he's not one of you. Every single one of you's a fucking _asshole._

**\--**

**her soft small self  
alive with desire to share her goddamn enthusiasm**

**\--**

"We're meeting a contact," says Poison, apropos of fucking nothing. While it ain't outta left field for them to fucking _decide_ a course of action for the whole crew outta nowhere, they seldom make it sound like you don't get no choice in the matter. You don't fucking ask how this sunshine signaled them. That's their business. You don't care.

You been watching the Kobra Kid put some gadget together for the past hour or so as he threads wires into the rectangular white casing that he swears is gonna be something fucking groundbreaking. Dunno how true that is, but it's nice to watch somebody else do the work every once in a while. He's careful and precise in a way that you ain't and never have been, like he knows exactly where things go and ain't just guessing.

"Oh yeah?" You sit up from your inelegant sprawl against the nearest boulder and squint at them. "Who we meetin'?"

"Friend of mine."

"Yeah, that really clears it up, P. Thanks."

You'll give Poison this much - they've networked themself into the desert more solidly than any fucking crew you've ever met. They got friends everywhere - other crews and DJs that they've buddied up to. You dunno how long they've been out here but it can't've been for _too_ long, since you're near sure you never ran into them before you joined up and you been out in the desert for a couple years now. Says a lot about the charisma they carry in them, the way they command others' attention no matter what. People're drawn to them, whether they want to be or not.

"Doesn't matter. Point is we're leavin'. C'mon." They yank the car door open and stand there waiting for everyone to pile into the Trans Am, expectant.

Kobra gets up slow. Jet, who's been parked against the Trans Am staring at the horizon, pretty much immediately looks ready to take shotgun. You stay right the fuck where you are.

"Where we goin'?" You say, making a real show outta yawning.

"I just said. Meetin' a contact."

"Yeah, but _where?"_

"Some drinkin' joint. Cemetery Window."

 _That_ gets you right up on your feet in record time. Your smile's hard edges and sharp angles, splitting you cheek to cheek and threatening to make everything hurt. Funny how outta all the damn drinking joints in the Zones, Party Poison wants to head to the only one you ever been booted from. Of fucking course, right?

"Fuck no."

Poison looks at you. Their expression's closed and cold and they don't seem _surprised_ that you're stupid enough to question them but they don't seem _annoyed_ either. They know you too well by now.

"We're goin', Ghoul."

"The hell we are."

Arguing ain't gonna stop it. Sure as shit don't stop you from opening your damn mouth anyway, does it?

"Ghoul," says Poison, the word a low growl, "get in the car."

"You can't fuckin' make m - "

Poison crosses the space between you and the car in two quick strides and clocks you hard across the face, sends you stumbling. You're up half a second later, returning the favor with a clean right hook. The two of you go down in a flurry of grunts and fists in ribs, boots in shins. Poison gets you onto the ground eventually, tries to clamp a hand around your mouth. You run your tongue up across their wrist and they swear and jerk back.

"Dick!"

You're still smiling. You're stuck underneath them but that don't mean you can't fight back. You get yourself onto your side and worm an arm free and start whacking them in the goddamn face.

"Fuck off, Ghoul!"

 _Meet your friend somewhere else._ The one joint you got a bad rep with, and that's the one Poison's using to meet their goddamn _contact?_

You put up all the fight you like but the midday finds you bruised and grimacing in the backseat of the Trans Am while the car hums its way over to the Cemetery Window. Probably not gonna be allowed in on account of you being a piece of shit who's burned all your bridges and it's only a matter of time before you burn these ones too, motherfucker. That fistfight you just had's a sure fucking indication of that.

You don't need the reminder that you ain't fucking welcome in the Window but sitting outside waiting for Poison and Kobra to be done dealing with some fucker or another's pure torture, all right? Plain and simple. Bouncing on your feet, waiting around, got nothing to do for hours. What the fuck're you gonna do with yourself, huh?

What else _is_ there to do but get wasted? 'Cause you need to get wasted, you've decided. Right fucking now. You got too many memories getting in the way of you and too much pressure sitting on your chest. You bother Jet into getting you inside, 'cause Kerosene told you not to come back alone and now you ain't alone, all right? You got supervision now, all right? Is that fucking all right with them?

They don't look all that happy to see you but you can still order in your half-remembered, godawful Cantonese so they relent and let you have two bottles of Lighter Fluid. It helps that you can pay and it helps that you got Jet at your side, deadeyeing them. Not a lotta people wanna go up against Jet Star. Motherfucker stands at over six feet and don't have to do anything more than fold his arms and _look_ at them and they'll size him up and decide that y'know what? They're fine with letting him do whatever he wants.

He's got the stature to keep people from taking their chances. None of these people know that Jet can barely hold his own hand to hand.

You toss Kerosene a couple carbons, thank them in a language you barely know, and - 

_"Yuumei ni naritai no?"_ says the radio, to the background noise of crashing symbols and snare drums.

You know that voice. It cuts through the background chatter in the Window, goes straight to the motherfucking heart. You spent months camped out in the same place as that voice, running errands for her, pulling favors, threatening to burn down storefronts, getting yourself blacklisted by the biggest supplier in the Zones. Been easier to quit thinking about them since you left but the last time you was here, it were fresh after you slammed the door on that. The memory's like barbed wire garroted around your windpipe.

Gotta breathe. Gotta remember - 

"Turn that shit off."

What the fuck're you doing? You wanna get kicked out again?

Kerosene don't even look at you.

"Hey. _Turn it off."_

_Shut up. Shut up. Shut up shut up god shut the fuck up -_

_"Maji de?"_ says NewsAGoGo, to a crunching guitar backing.

Production quality must've upped since you left - 

No. Shut up. _Stop fucking thinking about this._

Hard to stop thinking about it when it's right in your ears, ain't it?

"Change the channel." Can't quit fucking this up, can you? Your tone's getting desperate. When the fuck've you ever been _desperate?_ "Something. _Something."_

Kerosene cranks up the volume. _Asshole._

_"Eien to ikitai! Watashi wa bakuhatsu suru!"_

You can't fucking sit here and hear her voice over and over and over and over and _goddamn over_ again, singing on the airwaves but you left her and that was your choice and whose fault was that _what like you were gonna sit there and let her agents walk all over her_ shut up shut up god shut that piece of shit _up_ they think you need the reminder they think you need the _lesson_ -

"Y'hear me?" You're yelling, moving before you can gauge whether or not you should and of course you can kinda tell you _shouldn't,_ 'cause adrenaline's coursing in your blood and your breath's getting tight and you can't fucking stay here, can't fucking stand in place and do nothing but let the words pour into your head like acid. "Turn that fuckin - "

You collide with the counter roughly, flailing to make contact with the radio on the other end. An arm hooks around your shoulders and holds you in place. You fight it. 'Course you fight it. _Can't hold you down. What, he think he can fucking pin you?_

But it ain't the apartment wall and you're not in Bat City. You're in the Cemetery Window. Jet's murmuring something in your ear - "drinks?"

Came here to get wasted. Came here to fucking - to lose your mind, not get a dozen reminders of what you wanna lose your mind _over._ Jesus christ. You wanna get Jet banned from the establishment too? Jet, who's leaning down and murmuring in your ear like he's gotta secret to tell you and not like he just kept you from shattering Kerosene's goddamn radio.

_Fight it. Go on. Make it hurt make it all hurt make it HURT -_

Your breath's sharp and tight in your chest when you will the tension outta your hands, force the fingers to uncurl.

"Yeah." The word wobbles, barely there. "Yeah. Fuck it. Let's get outta here."

You can still hear her on the radio. She chatters like nothing's wrong, like - well, she wouldn't fucking know, would she? She'd have no fucking clue that someone she used to know's listening in. How many DJs can you get bad blood with, huh?

Kinda have that track record with everybody.

"Little bitch." Kinda don't mean to say it, but what's it matter? Jet don't say a thing to that. Never does but it don't feel like he's judging you. He lets it sit. Guess Jet's the one person you know who don't hold shit against you, even when maybe he should. That say more about Jet, or more about you?

Goddamnit, you came here to get wasted. Poison and Kobra can talk to their fucking "contact" all they like. You head outside and sit up against the Trans Am, the bony bump of your spine digging uncomfortably into the rim of the tires, and start drinking.

 _"Shit."_ It burns on the way down, heat and acetone. Your expression screws up for a minute while you acclimate to the buzz of alcohol in your gut. "That's the fuckin' stuff."

Jet's silent for a minute, per fucking usual. When he finally takes a sip, he coughs slightly. Didn't expect that, did he? You didn't either. _Back when she took you out drinking for the first time -_

Shut up. Not thinking about that.

Never mind that the taste of Lighter Fluid reminds you too much of them, the angle of their smile, the trill of their laugh. First time you got drunk and you threw up in the toilet bowl and GoGo held your hair outta your face and stayed with you 'till they could drive you home - 

_Where's home, anyway?_

You ain't eaten in a bit, so the drunken fuzz is quick to start fogging up your brain. Makes it easier to think. Makes it easier to do everything. Don't gotta sit there and let your brain go dragging you down into a fucking tangent _hell_ that you can never derail once it gets going. You keep talking 'cause the energy's still fizzing in your bones and Jet ain't gonna say anything so why _shouldn't_ you fill up the quiet between the two of you? Chatter about whatever bullshit springs to mind. The fact that you broke a bottle over that fucker's head last you was around.

Jet makes no comment on any of it. That don't mean a whole lot. The gang's got you to be a goddamn fucking annoyance always chattering in their ears. Ain't like they need anybody else to up the volume in the Trans Am. 

You keep drinking, keep talking, let the words bleed into one another 'till you're chattering about language, about the city, about everything. Jet's frown is faint, a dimple in his brow. It's the look he gets whenever someone brings up the city. Another one of those little tells that he were born outside it. That, along with everything else, kinda stands out about him.

He lets you talk. He don't need a lotta words to make his points but you gotta wonder if he minds being talked at like this. So you nudge Jet with the hard corner of your elbow, smirking. That's around the time he takes another gulp of his liquor and grunts, _"Cállate."_

You laugh.

"Ha! All right, all right."

The faster you drink, the more it makes your head tilt and your stomach slosh. You slide to the ground 'till you're flat on your back instead of propped up against the hard-angled expanse of the car. By now there's a faint slur to your speech, the words catching and tumbling over your tongue. You let your synapses jump to wherever they wanna go, and don't gotta think too hard about where they end up.

"I tell you, spaceman," you drawl. "We're all gonna burn out like fuckin' comets. Gonna crash like satellites. Burn it all the fuck down. Y'know what I mean?" 

Fuck, you need a smoke. You don't wanna fall asleep here, not with GoGo still rattling around in your head, but the alcohol's made you drowsy. Where the fuck're your cigs? Need stimulus, need nicotine in your blood to keep your eyes open. You know you got 'em somewhere on you. Picked up a new pack from a group of wavies the other day. 

_There._ You hold up the pack to Jet, who shakes his head. Figured he would, but it feels polite to offer and all, you know? Takes a minute to get your lighter to spark a flame that'll tickle the edge of your cigarette. C'mon, c'mon, what the fuck's the hold up here?

Probably that you're fucking _drunk,_ shithead.

"Bet She'll pack me up in pieces, man." You dunno how to explain the conviction behind this, that you _know_ without question that it's true and it were always gonna be. You're gonna go out hot and bright, nitro in your veins and a stick of dynamite in each hand. You'll live in grinning static and napalm. Ain't no other way you're gonna go out.

When the fuck'd you get on this topic? Your fault, probably. You're the only one talking here, asshole.

Jet picks the lighter outta your grip and lights up your nic-stick for you, unasked.

"Thanks, spaceman." You can feel his look, the slight hooding of his eyes that makes it just north of _withering._ "Y'got steady hands. Anybody ever tell you that?"

"Never." He drags the word out, his face inscrutable, but Jet's sarcasm's fucking lethal when its condensed into a single word. You laugh.

 _"Ha ha,_ yeah, I bet. Witch watchin' your back or somethin'?"

Jet looks at the beads around his wrist, plucks at them with his fingertips. Everybody in this crew's got at least one strand of bad luck beads. Jet's got two. 

"Maybe," says Jet.

"Bet you She is." The guy's lasted out here a long time, if he grew up in the Zones. Gotta have _someone_ looking after him, yeah?

Someone looking after you?

Destroya, maybe. You dunno. You sold off that bible to keep a DJ's station going, so maybe not. The Witch? Passed Her enough of people's souls, but that don't entitle you to nothing, not really.

Where's a soul like yours go after death? It go anywhere? Sure as shit don't deserve to walk wherever the Witch is gonna take it. What'd She want with a broken thing like you? Or...

Fuck, where _do_ you go after death if you're rotten to the core?

For all the nicotine you're trying to burn into your veins, it ain't doing a whole lot to keep you awake. It's the jolt of adrenaline that comes from thinking on where your soul's gonna end up once you're dusted that jars your heart, kicks it against the shell of your ribs.

"Hey. Hey, Jet?" You force your eyes open again, force yourself to look at him. His profile's hazy against the darkening sky, his flyaway hair fuzzy and dark. "If I go first - you'll take me to Her, right? You'll take me to Her even if I get blown to shit, right?"

Got no words to say how dire it is that you _know this,_ that you get some kinda promise that you _don't deserve_ that you'll end up someplace once your time's up. 

'Cause how else'll you go out? You'll go out loud and stupid, chaos incarnate, blood and _bits_ painting the sky scarlet. It'll be bombs and blistering. It'll be sparking detonation. It'll be goddamn glorious, more beautiful in death than you ever could be in life. You'll scorch the skies. You'll coat the stars with your ash. You'll live in the heat and flare of the whole world caving beneath a blast and a crater and a scar, forever.

You know this like you know every scar and stain of ink laid into your skin.

You know it like a truth and a prayer.

"Yeah," Jet says at last, so soft you can barely pick up on it.

"Y'sure?" He saying it 'cause he means it, or 'cause he feels he's gotta say yes?

"Yeah."

"Even if y'gotta do it in pieces?" Fuck, you ain't doing this right. _Can't do anything right._ Is this something he _wants?_ Something he's willing to do, or something he feels he _has_ to do? "Like, what if - _ha haaa,_ what if y'gotta put me in a box or in like, in like a shopping cart, just t'carry all the pieces? Even then?"

"Yeah."

He keeps _saying_ that.

"Like, what if y'gotta carry me in a _bucket?"_ That's not what you mean, that ain't what you're _asking_ here. You gotta play it off, laugh it off, make your own inevitable, messy demise a big fucking joke, same way you do everything. "What if I'm just _bits?_ How y'gonna do that, huh?"

 _You don't have to do that,_ is what you're trying to say. Ain't what comes out. Always been pretty rotten at saying what you mean. The alcohol don't change that much.

"Because I said so," says Jet.

You dunno what the fuck to say to that. 

'Course you end up saying the one thing that Poison said that fucked you up more than anything.

For no goddamn reason you can figure, you say, "thanks, brother."

It ain't much.

It's the one thing you can say that tells Jet what he should know, but maybe what he don't _really_ know yet - that the feeling's mutual.

'Cause he's one of you.

**\--**

**until i yank the leash back to save her because  
i want her to survive forever.**

**\--**

You ain't the only one to have a history with a DJ. Never figured you _were,_ sure. Just never thought twice about what everybody else might think of DJs. You're watching the Kobra Kid lay a few more circuits into his little white-box project and letting yourself drift into a doze when it comes up. Everybody's off doing their own thing. Poison's painting their gun, and Jet's busy trying to fix up the fire to keep the desert chill off everybody's backs. You could help him light up a real spark there, but you kinda don't feel like it after you set his hair on fire that one time, so nah. He can figure it out on his own.

"D was askin' after us," says Kobra abruptly.

 _That_ wakes you up.

"'S that so?" says Poison.

They gonna let you in? You got the patience to wait for them to let you in?

Fuck it. You'll bite. Jet sure as shit ain't gonna. 

"D?" you ask.

"Dr. Death. The DJ." Kobra don't look up from his little tech-demo. "We check up on him sometimes."

Dr. Death. As in Dr. Death Defying.

Oh.

_Oh no._

He remember you? He might. He might, 'specially if he knew GoGo, and you _know_ he knew GoGo 'cause she specifically wanted to keep in touch with him when you helped her set up her station and goddamnit, are there _any_ Zone-rats you ain't _fucked over_ by now?

"Huh." This is gonna go great. You can tell. "You check up on him?"

"Yeah. He helps us out, we help him out," says Poison. "'S a thing we do."

It's a _thing_ they do. That's fucking _nice_ of them, ain't it? What's the catch? Why do they bother? What's the equivalent exchange?

Only you know by now that Poison and Kobra don't work like that. They don't do debts and trade-offs. They don't hold shit against you. They've never held anything against you and they keep you around even now, after all the shit you've pulled. They pay it all forward. So how do they know Dr. Death, huh? How the fuck do they know him?

Jet glances up from his fussing with the fire. His eyes land on yours and you're pretty sure that's confusion there, but all you can do is grimace. _Fucking great._ You'd've been pretty goddamn content with never seeing Dr. Death Defying again.

"Caffeine, though?" muses Kobra. "I can't see us gettin' that from anybody, 'cept maybe Tommy. And he'll probably fuckin' stiff us for it."

"Maybe not. I'm thinkin' we're overdue for a run anyway," says Poison. "Could use the extra food 'n bat packs."

Jet straightens up and lifts his eyebrows at them.

"We do runs on city supply lines sometimes," says Poison, answering his unasked question. "Nice 'n easy, usually. Free supplies, 'n we can sell whatever we don't need. City ain't been able to stop us yet."

Something flits across Jet's features, stark and horrified, and then it's gone.

"Oh," he says quietly.

"So, I'm gonna comb some of the airwaves and figure out what times is best," says Poison, who either don't notice Jet's unease or don't care. "BLi's always gettin' shipments from outside the Zones. 'Long as we keep our eyes 'n ears out, we'll catch one easy. Tomorrow we're motorin' to Zone One." They take charge easy. It comes natural. They done raids before and you seen them pull it off. They was managing it with just them and Kobra and they managed it fine even with _you_ getting underfoot the way you always do, so you dunno why Jet looks like this is the last time he expects to see any of you.

Kobra starts packing up bits and pieces of his stolen BLi tech, shoving them in his pockets as he stands.

"Kobra," Poison's still going. "You 'n Ghoul're gonna be in charge of the car 'n making sure that no pigs try and make it to the Bat to sound the alarm. You're keepin' the caravan in place while Jet 'n me keep the dracs off your back. Jet?" They look askance at him. "You got the best shootin'. You good for that?"

Jet nods. He still looks kinda on the paler side, but he don't say a thing.

"Whatsamatter, Jet?" You shove him light with an elbow to the ribs. "You scared of a couple dracs?"

The ferocity of Jet's glower coaxes something answering outta you, a sharper edge to your fucking grin. 'Course that don't make it better. You don't make things _better_ , kinda as a rule. But who needs _better?_ No one does. Not out here.

Whatever the reason that Jet's all antsy, it's enough to keep him awake. You got assurances and you got a real tight piece of detonation in progress, a little guarantee that even if things go Costa Rica you'll be there to cover it in a nice big _boom._ That mystery jug that set Jet's hair on fire, you're pretty sure you know what you're gonna do with it now. 

Jet don't say anything to your certainty but he smiles the tiniest bit when you wink at him so you're calling that win. You always call it a win when you get Jet to crack a smile. You're the one who manages it the most often and it's always fucking worth it.

And anyway, Jet don't got nothing to worry about. The raid goes fucking milkshake right up 'till you're making the getaway drive. Poison got a crate of BL/ind shit and slung it into the trunk, which is about all they rip from the supply trucks. They get too greedy, BL/ind'll start upping security and it'll make these little raids that much harder to pull off down the line. Poison's smart like that. Got foresight, or whatever.

But it's fine. You're keeping the Trans Am on track. Clean getaway. So why the fuck's Jet losing his shit in the back?

The whole thing went down fine and Jet's the one who can't cover everybody's six or answer a basic goddamn question. Kobra keeps trying to figure what's wrong and not getting a response. Poison's about ready to punch in a car window. They're enough of a goddamn maniac when someone other than them is behind the wheel and now with their brother paying more attention to Jet Star than securing their escape, their mood's only getting worse.

"What the fuck is wrong with him?" Poison shouts it at the backseat with bared teeth. "If he ain't hit, what's he _doing?_ We need someone to cover our six."

"We're clear, Poison," says Kobra.

"We're clear when I say we're clear."

"Fuck off."

That don't help much. Jet makes this godawful heaving sound, like he's about to vomit. You can't twist around and look at him 'cause taking your eyes off the road in a situation like this one'd be pretty fucking stupid, but Poison definitely wrenches around in their seat to glare at whatever the hell's happening in the back.

"If he ruins the fuckin' car, I'm beating his ass."

"Will y'cool it, P?" You call them that specifically 'cause it gets them to glare at _you_ instead.

"Don't call me that."

"He's not gonna fuckin' puke on your floor, Poison, _Christ,"_ says Kobra. "Give him a minute, all right?"

"I don't care. If he starts spittin' chunks, I'm kickin' him out." Poison keeps ramping this shit up. Jet's busy having some kinda fucking breakdown in the backseat and they wanna lose their shit at him? You might be stuck driving but that don't seem right to you.

There's crows at your tail, visible in the rearview.

"Will you shut it, Party?" you say, all idle, like you ain't redlining from a bunch of whitejacket pigs that want you all dusted. "We get it. You gotta love affair with your car, and who doesn't? It's very fuckin' sexy, 'n all."

"The _road,_ Ghoul," snaps Poison.

"I'm just sayin', who hasn't thought of stickin' their dick in a car like this one?"

"Fuckin' - _uzai,_ will you?" Now they look at you, fierce and blazing. "Fuck's sake, I'm never lettin' you take her out again."

Slipped into Japanese for a second. Must've really got under their skin. You kinda don't mean to grin at that one but that pisses off Poison even more, so that's a fucking bonus right there. Perks of being an insufferable bastard.

Jet's still breathing hard in the backseat. You dunno what the fuck he and Kobra're doing back there, but you got Poison's full undivided attention and that's kinda what you was going for.

"Nothin's stoppin' you from marryin' the damn thing, Party," you continue. Poison's knuckles bleach white when they grip at the back of their seat, a muscle in their jaw twitching. Pretty sure they can tell what you're doing, but they must be glitched off enough not to care. "'S that what y'do when we're all asleep? You go whisperin' sweet nothings into her tailpipe?"

The car hits a pothole and dips for a terrifying second.

"Ah, shit. Whoops."

"If you hurt my car, I'm breakin' your fuckin' _arm,_ Ghoul," snarls Poison. "Quit driving like a _maniac."_

"The Trans Am and me is purely platonic, Party."

"Shut the fuck up."

Laser fire crackles at your backs, scorching the asphalt. Shit, and you figured they'd've given up by now. Fuckers're getting more determined.

"Goddamnit, Ghoul, _get us the fuck outta here_ before the pigs fry us!" snarls Poison.

"Goin' as fast as I can, all right?"

They glare at you again, livid, then whip around to bark at the backseat. "Kobra! Where the fuck's our cover fire?"

Nope. Nope, they don't wanna be doing that. Jet still ain't said a word. Not like that's weird for him, but you're gonna assume he's still kinda working things out so you gotta turn things back to your own damn self, quick.

"I think we're good, P."

"Wasn't fuckin' askin' you, Ghoul."

"I'm just puttin' it out there, if you're so hung up on our scarecrow buddies, _you_ go shootin' off at our six. 'S not like it's hard."

Poison don't look at you. Bad sign.

"Y'sure he didn't get hit?" Their tone pitches slightly lower. Still sharp, but with less of an edge.

"He ain't hurt or anything," says Kobra. "I checked."

Poison's scowl is evident from the corner of your eye, just by the curve of their cheek. "So what the fuck's his _problem?"_

You hit another bump in the road and the car's chassis dips dangerously low to the tarmac.

"Oops."

"God damn it Ghoul, what did I _just fucking say."_

Look, you're trying here. The Trans Am's the fastest bird in the Zones. You and Kobra fixed her that way. The crows on your asses don't stand a chance but 'till you're in the clear, Poison's gonna keep losing their shit and if they're gonna be a bitch about it they might as well take it out on you and not the guy panicking in the back.

"Give it a rest, P."

"I told you not to _fuckin'_ call me that." 

You don't look at them. Don't have to for you to feel the nuclear quality of their glower. That's right, asshole. Focus on you.

"Oh, look at that," you say like you ain't paying any attention to the fucking heat-seeking missile in the passenger seat. "We're losing 'em and we didn't even need Kobra 'n Jet to cover our six." 

Poison's look clearly says _don't fucking push it._ But they shut the fuck up and that's what you was going for so you quit needling and drive 'till you can't see the crows in the rearview. Ain't 'till you spot a decrepit silhouette of a structure on the horizon that you pull the car over so everybody can spill out and take a minute. Kobra takes watch while you start inventorying. Jet sits against the wall of whatever old-ass building you parked beside. He's breathing slow and steady, doing whatever he's gotta do. Fine. Okay. Poison's still shooting him weird, suspicious looks like they're gonna march up to him and demand _what the fuck._ Better head that off while you can.

Not like that'll be hard. Comes natural to you. Even better, that whole raid might've gone off without a hitch but the pickings're pretty shit. Nutrient-rich protein compounds and dog food. Surprise, surprise.

"Protein, protein, protein." You fish one of the cans of dog food out, stare at the sick, happy little logo. You gotta fend off the memories of scraping the bottom of a can of it with a dirty spoon 'cause you had nothing else to eat and it were the only thing you could sneak outta the kitchen. Your gut clenches and you fling the can back into the box. "Fuckin' _shitloads_ of dog food, though. You know how to pick 'em, Party."

Success. Now Poison's looking at _you,_ and they're scowling again.

"Had to move fast," they snap. "Always do. 'S what I could grab, so that's what we got."

They glance at Jet again. He ain't looking at anything in particular. Hard to say if he's processing anything going on around him.

"Nobody's gonna trade caffeine _anything_ for a crate full'a PowerPup." You roll your shoulders. "Th'fuck does Bat City even _need_ this much dog food for? Swear to god, every time we get shit off their trucks, it's half _PowerPup."_

"For their dogs." Kobra says it soft, not looking at you.

For their dogs. For the dogs that your dad took care of, raised, helped out when they was sick or injured. He never gave a fuck about those dogs just like he never gave a fuck about you and it lights up a jag of lightning in the center of you and you don't gotta pretend to be a pain in the ass anymore. You're managing it just fine on your own. 

"No fuckin' _shit."_ You snarl it out with more ferocity than you mean to. Fuck it. Whatever. You keep going. "Seriously, P, you could've taken a minute to look for something _useful."_

"We're heading to D's," says Poison, plainly trying to rein in the situation. "If we don't got his caffeine, he'll have to buy it off Tommy or some other fuck. We ain't peddling shit in the Zones here."

"You couldn't'a gone lookin' for _batteries?_ You couldn't'a gone lookin' for literally _anything_ we could actually use?" Oh, so now they're ignoring you? Fuck them. You stand, start stepping closer. "Nah, just a fuckton of dog food dinner. Fuck, I _love_ runnin' with this fuckin' shit crew, Party, I really fuckin' - "

You see it coming a second before it happens. They hook you smart across the jaw and then keep fucking talking like it were nothing.

"Shut the fuck up and start packing," says Poison. "We're headed to D's. If we drive fast enough we can make it - "

Then you slam into them with all the force of a fucking mortar, arms snapped around their middle and bringing them hard to the ground. Poison don't cry out. They never do. They only grunt in surprise when they land on the ground and then they're hitting you again, knuckles to your face several times in quick succession. You're on top of them but they're bigger than you and they can throw a mean punch. Kobra might have the best fists outta the two of them but Poison knows a thing or two about fucking someone up in close quarters, 'specially now. You been winding them up all day. They gotta boil this all off somehow and it might as well be onto you.

They try to shove you off, buck at the hips and knock you sprawling onto your side. _Get up, get up._ Halfway to your knees now but they're quick as a whip, one arm hooked 'round your neck. They're trying to get you into a headlock. You start biting them fierce 'till they swear and let go and settle for kicking you in the shins instead. You go down and - _on your back, always end up on your back._

You end up on your back. Face-up. Poison grabs a handful of your shirt and starts laying into you.

You're laughing when Kobra and Jet finally see fit to make sure you and Poison don't tear each other apart. Kobra drags Poison off while Jet yanks you backwards, hauling you through the dirt.

_Not gonna let them take me, not alive -_

When he lets go you almost deck him across the face for touching you. He good now? That what this was? Needed to get himself together 'cause the crew were at each other's throats? That the only way he can make himself functional?

"Try that again, starfucker," you say past a switchblade smile. "Just fuckin' try it."

Jet's hand closes into a fist, but he says nothing.

Poison's finally getting all that leftover adrenaline outta their system judging by the sounds of the _crashes_ and _thumps_ going on nearby and...fine. Okay. Fine. So why the fuck're you still all lit up in heat and fire? One of your eyes is swollen shut. The skin quivers to the touch when you brush at the ripe plum of a black eye forming on your face. You spit blood and sit. Great job, Party Poison. Fuck you.

"Heads up," says Kobra, quiet. He points, and there it is - evidence that the crows ain't off your backs completely. There's the rumble of distant motors getting closer, clouds of dust. Can't afford to sit this one out for much longer, can you?

Poison hears it too. They still look scuffed and bruised when they storm outta the building but their words're clipped and measured when they speak.

"We're heading to D's."

And what choice do you have?

**\--**

**_don't die,_ i say**

**\--**

Poison handles Dr. Death Defying with a familiarity that feels wrong. It's like looking into the hubcap of a car and seeing your reflection waved-out and blurred back at you. They act like they know him, like they're a couple of old friends, and he acts the same. He asks if they've picked up another stray. You wasn't aware this were a thing that Poison and Kobra _did._ He talking about you?

He _remember_ you?

You keep to the back. You dunno if he recognizes you, but you don't _wanna_ know. You didn't have a name back when he met you.

"Where's Pony?" asks Kobra. So Pony's still with this guy? Guess they're a longtime runner.

For the best that they ain't here. One less person who might potentially figure out who you are and who you were and you know what? You don't need that.

"We're fresh off a raid with no juice," Poison's saying. "Not unless you want a crate of dog food."

"I assume that's why Fun Ghoul has a black eye," says Dr. D.

Every muscle in your back goes rigid.

 _How's he know?_ He don't know you. He didn't know you as Monster and he never knew you as Fun Ghoul and even when he did know you he didn't _know_ you. You was stuck with him for a minute but you got out quick. How's he know you, your name, your face? _Fun Ghoul._ He says it like he recognizes you, and - 

It's impossible to tell if he's looking at you. His eyes're hidden behind those dark glasses. 

He's a DJ. He's tuned into the airwaves, mainlining them every goddamn day. GoGo were adamant about being able to contact him at all times 'cause he knows more than anybody else, she said. He's got ears and eyes all over the desert. He been keeping tabs on Party Poison? That how he know you?

But you're nobody.

Don't this unsettle them, the idea that this DJ's _watching_ them? Did they know? _Why the fuck wouldn't they tell you._ That ain't your business. _Is_ that your business? _If it involves you, it's your goddamn fucking business._

"I didn't ask you over here for the pleasure of your _winning_ company," says Dr. Death. Nobody's paying attention to you or to the fact that D just name-checked you without any goddamn warning. Neither Poison nor Kobra breathe a fucking thing about that implication. "What I got is a motivation. You're the right sort of people to try pullin' it off."

"Bet you say that to all the girls." You're pretty sure Kobra hears you when you say it 'cause the corner of his mouth jumps a little, but nobody else acknowledges it, least of Dr. D.

Bet he can feel you staring. Don't say a goddamn thing. Can't tell if he's looking at you.

Poison looks to the rest of you. Their question's all in the unspoken glance. Jet nods, Kobra shrugs, and you give 'em the finger. Yeah, still ain't forgotten that black eye they gave you, asshole.

They roll their eyes.

Dr. Death tells the four of you about a place up near Ashpoint, a spot at the very fringe of Zone Six. The rumors say that there's all sorts of fun little toys you could uncover there. Bombs, guns, bullets, and so on. That's enough to make the trip worth the risk, in your humble fucking opinion. You know Poison's gonna agree to the job when they ask him - "you wanna see if we can do it, don't you?"

D is unapologetic. "You're the only burners I can think of who'd pull it off."

He says it like he knows all of you. Maybe he knows Poison well enough, maybe he knows _Kobra,_ but you and Jet? He can't possibly. Whatever he knows about you's gotta be pretty goddamn vague. Got eyes all over the desert. If he's anything like GoGo, he's gotta be wired in pretty deep, picking up freqs from all over the Zones, getting news ferried to him faster than anything. Just took you off guard that you was news worth reporting on.

Maybe it's 'cause you're with Party Poison. He keeps an eye on them, you guess.

You don't get the chance to ask. It's decided pretty quick that you're all heading to Ashpoint to pilfer the hideout of some old arm's dealer. At least, that's what you're _supposed_ to be doing. Dr. Death gets hung up on the flag on Jet's back for some reason. He plays you all a record, talks about an old anthem.

It's an American flag on Jet's jacket. The _U.S.,_ D calls it. Same flag you got on your bandanna, a symbol of something that ain't the BL/ind.

It's a funny thing, getting that kinda reminder.

The reminder that there was a world before BLi come and took it.

**\--**

**and we decide to walk for a bit longer, starlings  
high and fevered above us**

**\--**

Once again, it's down to you to take the car to some other crew that Poison knows. Your fearless leader might rail on you and beat the shit outta you when they're pissed but for all the shit they spout, you're still the only one they trust to drive the Trans Am and not utterly wreck it, and you're the only one willing to take them up on it. Jet don't seem to like driving and Kobra definitely don't, so it's down to you and no matter what kinda fight the two of you've had Poison'll always press the keys into your hand with the expectation that you'll come back.

This time, it's 'cause the car don't have enough gas to make it outta Zone Six. So your job's to take the pickings you got off the dilapidated building you found - not near as many bombs and zaps as Dr. D promised you, but enough to justify the trip, and a hell of a big-ass gun worth keeping - and trade for fuel. Poison gave you another name before you brine out. You're looking for _the Contaminators._

The leader's a ringshine, name of Peroxide Prince. The size of the group varies, Poison told you, but Prince is the leader. The mess of 'em usually hang around in Six, by the Witch's Fingers.

The Fingers're several large, spiky protrusions jutting into the desert, jagged rock from crumbled cliff faces and toppled mountains that still rear proud over the desert expanse. The Contaminators're rovers by nature, the way most killjoys are, but unlike most they got a home base, and according to Poison, this is it. They're real wild rubberburners by reputation, like driving fast and _loud,_ so, fuel's one of their most important resources. Not sure how willing they'll be to hand over some gas in exchange for a few boxes of bullets. Like guns out here shoot bullets anymore. Who the hell'd get anything from a box of bullets?

You never been to the Witch's Fingers. They're right up against the mountain ranges that keep Zone Six hedged in, cornered between the rocky summits and the Radiation Belt that's all that's become of Zone Seven. Some voices on radio say there used to be a hell of a lot more mountain ranges in the Zones 'till the Helium Wars flattened 'em, though here's still a couple ranges left. Most of them're borderline impossible to cross by tire and rough as hell by foot, so you dunno a lotta zonerunners who've tried to get outta the Zones that route. Most live and grow and die in this desert cage. Or they stay to fight their wars on a wasteland front.

Being this close to the ranges don't feel right. You prefer being able to gauge your distance from things by squinting at the horizon, peering through the ambient heat-haze of the hundred-degree weather. Like this, there's too much cover for the other side if things go sideways.

Better not make them go sideways then.

Once again, Party Poison's entrusted this job to _you_ of all people. Couldn't think of a worse choice yourself. Then again, Jet ain't much for talking, Kobra's skittish around people he dunno, and Party Poison runs a risk of inflaming someone's sensibilities if they're in a right mood. Guess since you're the chattiest, you're the lucky bastard who gets to broker deals and shit. Would've rather helped Kobra take apart the ancient dishwasher he found, but you're the only other one who can drive and Poison wasn't gonna let him do it alone so, y'know, here you are.

Nothing for it. Can't tell if there's anyone around. If there's vehicles, they're hidden.

You cup your hands to your mouth.

"Look alive, _Contaminantes!"_

Stupid? Sure. Shit-brained? Absolutely.

But it gets results. The Peroxide Prince stands out by sheer virtue of xyr hair; even if Poison hadn't described xem to you, it'd be pretty goddamn apparent which one of the Contaminators xe is. Xe's got this bleach-blonde slick of hair greased back, with the sides shaved down to nothing. The shade of it's stark against the pinchbeck brown of xyr skin. Xe's pretty short - not that much taller than you - and painfully pretty. Dark jacket hanging short at the ribcage, sparkling with pointed studs. More piercings than you figured was possible to fit on one person - lips, ears, the round curve of xyr belly, and probably more that you ain't seeing. Tattoo in the shape of a crown across the back of xyr wrist.

"Who's askin'?" The Prince drawls it out slow, like it ain't any problem. Can tell by the flick of xyr eyes that xe's sizing you up.

"Friend of Party Poison's." You don't got their mask this time. Presumably the car'll be enough of a hint that, hey, you're one of theirs. That, and apparently people know you by _name_ now, outta reputation. You're one of the killjoys who runs with Party Poison and the Kobra Kid.

"So which one does that make _you?"_ The Prince walks slow, languorous as xe looks you up and down. "The Fun Ghoul, I'd say. Got the look t'you."

Great. Someone else who knows you by sight. That ain't gonna get tedious, or even worse, _actively dangerous._ Enough people out here hate your mug for good reason without you adding the rest of the goddamn desert to the list of people who hate you on reflex. Rather than deny it, you take one outta Party Poison's playbook: you lift your chin and look xem dead in the eye when xe circles back to stand face to face with you.

"One 'n only." 

"Poison send you?" Prince folds xyr arms, cocks xyr hip to one side. No reason for xem to be wary. This is xyr territory, not yours.

"Could use some fuel to get outta Six. Said you were the ringshine to talk to." No preamble, no bullshitting, nothing. You did this before with Riptide so you can do it now, yeah? _What makes you think you can do anything?_ Shut up. God. Pay attention.

"A favor?" The Prince quirks up an eyebrow.

"A trade." You jerk your head at the trunk but you don't look away from xem yet. Know better than to turn your back on someone who you dunno yet. Prince don't seem offended any. Xe keeps looking at you and then calls out without taking xyr eyes off you - 

"Hazard! We got company."

Xe introduces xyr crewmate as _BYO-Hazard,_ who turns out to be an earthshine even shorter than you. She's equal parts fat and muscle it seems like, with broad shoulders and hands big as your face. She slides down the rock face gracefully, catching at the loose gravel for a handhold, and jogs up to Prince to eye you up.

"Who the fuck's this?"

"Who d'you _think?"_ says Prince, a bizarre blend of disarming and disdainful. _"This_ is Fun Ghoul. Y'know. One of the _Fabulous Four."_

"Th'what?" you blurt. 

Should've kept your mouth shut. Prince turns to you, arching another eyebrow.

"C'mon, tumbleweed, don't tell me y'don't _know."_

You don't. You _don't_ know. You never fucking know shit, dumbass. _C'mon, get with the program._

"There's all sorts of talk on the radio-waves about you four," Prince continues. "Party Poison, the leader. And the three at their back - Fun Ghoul, Jet Star, and the Kobra Kid. Got a hell of a reputation, all four of you. This really the first you heard of it?"

You wasn't aware you _had_ a reputation outside of "GoGo's old runner" to the handful of burners that recognize you, or that Party Poison was all that well-known to begin with. Except that ain't true, is it? Nah, actually. Dr. Death took one look at you and knew you was Fun Ghoul. Dr. Death asked Poison if they'd picked up another stray like he already knew the answer. 'Cause it's been the four of you for months now, hasn't it?

How big a name _are_ you? _All_ of you?

"Oh," says Hazard. She don't sound impressed. Honestly kinda welcome after that. "The fuck they want?"

"Fuel," you cut in before the Prince can make any statements on your behalf. "Enough to get outta Zone Six. We're running on fumes here."

"And what've you got to trade for it?" says Hazard, her eyes narrowing.

You pop the trunk. Boxes of bullets don't seem like a real fair trade. Takes most of them to agree to get enough gas to take you outta Zone Six. Hazard sighs like she knows she's being cheated but at the Prince's urging disappears up one of the rocky slopes for a minute. She's back a second later with a canister that she uses to fill up the tank. It must've been a vivid red once, but the sun's rays've bleached it a pale, faded pink. You catch the strong whiff of ethanol as she pours it in.

"Should last you to Five at least," says Hazard gruffly. "Don't burn through it all at once."

It's easier like this. Straight exchange, nice and even. No _IOUs,_ no favors, nothing. Prince sticks around for the whole thing, standing to the side with xyr arms crossed. Hazard finishes gassing up the tank and then she's outta there, but the Prince lingers.

Xe lays a hand on your arm before you go. You do xem the courtesy of not backhanding xyr across the face for that.

"You might wanna lay low, tumbleweed." Prince smiles. Xyr teeth're achingly white. "The DJs're starting to talk. They say...well. They say all kinds of things."

You smile back. This don't seem to take xem off guard, though xe tilts xyr head to one side slightly.

"Thanks for the warning." Look at that. You're two for two with successful negotiations with other crews while going solo, and how 'bout that? When the fuck'd that happen anyway? "And the gas."

"Bullets aren't really standard currency," says the Prince wryly. "But someone out here might need them. You never know."

_You never know._

You know Kerosene drove you outta the Cemetery Window by firing a weapon at the ceiling. It issued a _bang,_ louder than anything else you ever heard. It smoked at the end, smelled sharp and _wrong,_ nothing like the crisp ozone stench of a freshly shot raygun.

Never wondered twice about it, but now that you're thinking...that'd explain a lot. It weren't no ordinary raygun that Kerosene were toting. How the hell they got their mitts on a thing like that, well, that's another question entirely. Also not your goddamn problem. Know what _is_ your problem? Gas.

"Say." You lean across the hood of the Trans Am with a smirk. "How much extra could I get for pointin' you in the way of someone who might _really_ wanna get their hands on 'em?"

You head back to Ashpoint with a trunk that ain't as crowded and a full tank of gas. All things considered, could've gone way worse. Could've gone the way things look to've gone for Poison, Kobra, and Jet. Between the three of them, Jet's passed out and bleeding from like three places, Poison's got an arm wrapped in bloodied bandage, and Kobra's trying to drag Jet's limp shape outta the goddamn building.

"Aw, fuck." You shake your head while Kobra tries to get Jet into the backseat. "All that quality mayhem, 'n I missed it."

Poison ain't impressed. They slam the door behind them when they climb into the passenger seat.

"Shut the fuck up and drive, Ghoul."

**\--**

**winter coming to lay  
her cold corpse down upon this little plot of earth.**

**\--**

Takes you a while to fix up the big-ass gun you all found at Ashpoint. Dr. Death calls it a bazooka next time you visit, and it's the most powerful thing you've ever held in your fucking hands. Assuming you can get it to work.

Pff. Please. 'Course you can get it to work. You're _Fun Ghoul,_ motherfucker. You've fixed droids, you've fixed cars, you've fixed radios, you've messed with every chunk of scrap that's ever come your way. 'Course you can fix a fucking bazooka.

The Kid helps you with it. He ain't even mad that you stole most of his shit to fix it up. He's about as keen to see it work as you are, you'll bet. You'll bet they all are. Poison and Jet don't say nothing whenever you try to get all the little locks and pins working again, but they let you keep hauling the damn thing around even if it takes up a shitton of space and barely fits in the trunk.

It'll be worth it. It'll be totally fucking worth it.

"What'd Jet even _do_ to get himself shot three times, huh?" you ask while you and Kobra're trying to figure what kinda ammo this thing'll use.

"Waveheads," says Kobra darkly, like that sums it all up.

Goddamnit. Should've been there. 

"They just show up and start shootin' up the place?"

"Don't they always?"

 _No. They don't always._ Wavies only get antsy enough to start shooting if you bug them first. Fuck, what the hell happened? 

The building. Must've been the building. Wrecked to hell, mostly empty, just enough supplies to be salvaged...fuck, it could've been a sunhouse and you didn't fucking know it. Can't know it for sure. _Should've been there._

"That what got Poison all messed up?"

Kobra nods. His focus is tunneled on making sure the reload mechanism for the bazooka actually fucking works so he don't seem like he's listening too close. You glance up, watch Jet and Poison while they inventory what's left of the food they traded from Chow Mein for boxes of bullets. Jet's doing fine despite having been shot three times. Knowing the Zones, if he's been out here since birth, he's probably used to it by now - the scarring, the bleed, the charred skin. Poison's getting by with trying not to use their arm so much.

Jet were passed out by the time his laser-burns were all bandaged up. Poison can't've been the one to do it 'cause they only got the one arm, so - 

"Did all right with him." You nod at Jet so Kobra knows what the hell you're saying. "He's doin' good, looks like."

Kobra's expression closes up.

His eyes drop back to the bazooka. He don't say another word.

You get a good chance to test out the thing when you're redlining away from a band of dracs that caught sight of you in Zone Two. There's four or five of them to the car but that ain't stopping them from shooting at your backs while you make for the Trans Am parked just off Route Guano. Whether Poison means you to fight or run, the Trans Am's your only cover. The weapon's lying in the dust where you left it. Nothing to do but heft it up - it's so big you gotta balance it on your shoulder - aim careful, and then -

"Ghoul, what the _fuck're you doing?"_

Uh, like it ain't _obvious?_ Your finger jams the trigger down. For a second nothing happens.

_Goddamnit._

Next thing you know, you're sprawled face-up, staring at the patchwork gray-blue sky. You kinda expected your ears to be ringing, but they ain't. Kinda can't hear anything actually.

"Did I get it?" The words're...huh. Can't hear a goddamn thing. You try again, louder. Still nothing. _Fuck._ Too close. Must've been standing way the hell too close. Did _not_ expect the blast radius to be that goddamn gigantic.

Jet's the first one to lean into your line of vision. He grimaces, and then, to your surprise, starts to make familiar motions with his hands. You don't get the whole thing, but _blew_ and _ears_ stand out. Probably saying, hey, you blew the fuck outta your ears, dumbass.

 _No shit,_ you sign back.

Jet blinks, which is the only way that he indicates that this has taken him off guard. What? Why the fuck would he bother signing anything to you if he didn't expect it to fucking work, huh?

 _Your leg's hurt,_ he says, or something to that effect. Wait, what?

"What, really? I don't feel - " Then you try and get your legs under you and oh, shit, you're tipping forward, ending up in someone's arms. Someone's holding you back, _holding you to the fence,_ fuck fuck fuck he found you he found you knew he was gonna he was always gonna well you're gonna _fuck_ that motherfucker _up_ you're gonna tear him apart yeah he can just try and fuck with you but you'll be there to fuck with him right back. Step on his toes, crush his windpipe, _get the fuck away from him._ Not putting you up against a fence, not throwing you into a door, never fucking _touching you again._ Nobody touches you, _he_ doesn't get to fucking touch you again.

You get a step away from the bastard and your leg gives out. You buckle forward. Someone catches you again. _Fuck._

Jet's in front of you, saying something with his hands, but you dunno what the fuck it is. _Don't care._ Arms around you. Someone else's hands keeping you upright. _This is it. This is how you die._

Naturally you begin to laugh. You're really fucked now, huh? _You're fucked._ Back to re-education, back to the pills, back to the television sets and the scent of latex and the blinding white lights. You're on your back again. They gonna open you up? Split you open, ply your ribcage apart, pry all the meat and _shit_ from inside you, empty you out, spill your entrails like wet slop into the fucking dirt? Hard surface beneath your back. The fuck's this supposed to be, operating table?

Ceiling's too blue to be anything but the sky.

Where the fuck are you again?

Hands on your front, pressing down. You fight it. 'Course you fucking fight it. You said you was never going back and you _meant that,_ you was never gonna let him or anyone else fucking put their _hands_ on you again, never fucking _again._ You thrash. Throw everything you are against the arms pinning you. You'll bite the bastards who think they can keep you. You'll _rip them apart._ Feeling returns to your leg in a burning inflorescence, curling up from the back of your ankle to the meat of your thigh and it _hurts so fucking much._ It intensifies with every jolt of movement but you don't give a fuck. You kick someone in the face a couple times you bet, you're fucking certain of it, but every impact reminds you that everything from your thigh down feels like it's been dipped in boiling acid.

 _"Fuzakeru na! Fuck, motherfucker, puk gai, eat shit you fucking motherfucking kusottare, fuck you, fuck you!"_ Can't fucking see. Can't hear yourself speak. Clack of your teeth's all you got to know that you're still fucking yelling. Your throat feels torn, wet, but the burning don't stop and neither do you. _"I'll fucking kill you gae-sae suck shicho' goddamnit fuck!"_

Someone's shouting at someone else to _hurry the fuck up._ Can barely catch it. Throbbing in your chest, pounding in your ears - can only tell it's there from the beat of the blood in your veins. Hands on your shoulders. Hands keeping you down. _Get the fuck off._

Someone's doing something to your leg. It's white. It's white on the outside and black on the inside of you, black like the rot gumming up your teeth, like the blood you taste on your tongue. The white is utter silence, it's crisp and it's deafening and it's like being caught in re-education again and the black's a fucking soup of oil and pus coagulating in your guts. Every nerve pulses in time to the kick of your heart. Feels like every vein is coursing with fire stemming out from that point on your leg where the skin crackles to the touch, fire-eaten and burned dark. Screaming's too loud but it's all coming from you, hoarse and animal and _you can't get free._ Something's being poured over your leg. Everything shorts out for a blissful handful of stuttered heartbeats before your body remembers what pain is and then it's igniting the barbed wire roping of your nervous tissue into a firebrand. You dunno what the fuck you're shouting anymore. Only know that - that - 

They release you and you lurch forward, levering yourself off the car so fast that you nearly faceplant into the dirt. Someone catches you across the front. You try to tug free, but hang on a sec, you know this. You know who this is. It's dark hands and dark jacket and you look up and it's Jet. It's Jet, staring at you like he's scared you won't recognize him.

You shake your head, blink a couple times to clear it. That don't do much.

 _You shouldn't walk,_ says Jet. He say something else but your grasp on sign language is pretty haphazard.

_How bad?_

_Bad,_ says Jet, grimacing.

Guess you should be grateful he knew what the fuck he was doing.

Poison says something but you can't pick up on the words and the sounds're steadily tiding back but they're muted, dulled out. Must be lucky that your hearing's coming back at all, huh? Note to self: the bazooka has a hell of a goddamn radius. Maybe you should be shooting that shit outta moving cars instead, yeah?

You don't get the chance to find out for a while. You gotta stay off the leg for a little bit but that's tough to do in the Zones when every day's a scramble to get by. The BLi patrol you run into maybe a week later's new - never seen 'em take this route before. Either they're changing things up for the hell of it or they're getting smarter. Hard to say with the slick of sweat running into your eyes, each labored heave of your heart mantled over your lungs.

Must be hotter'n usual. Why else'd you feel like the bronze fingers of sunlight're pouring more heat down your spine than you're used to?

The bazooka'd take too long to set up and you're feeling kinda lightheaded anyway. So that's a no-go. Fine. Gotta settle for ghosting these bastards the old-fashioned way. Laser fire and burning plasma and scorching latex. You light them the fuck up. One of them tries to creep up on Poison and your gun clicks empty so you abandon shooting the thing in favor of sprinting forward and leaping at it. If you aim for its neck, maybe you can figure out how to _snap_ it, same way Kobra does - 

Your leg buckles and you go down before you get that far. You hit the ground hard, grunting, look up and - well, fuck, there goes the element of surprise. The Kobra Kid's there to fuck up the drac's knees and then blow a burn-hole in the back of its skull and by then the clap's over. 

He offers a hand.

Standing's kinda giving you some trouble. Probably shouldn't be putting all that weight on your leg. Poison and Kobra try to drag you to your feet and demand to know what the fuck's wrong with you. Fuck them. They think you can't handle this shit on your own? Fuck them.

Jet's the only one to _ask_ if he can see your leg. You let him guide you to the Trans Am and you sit there grimacing while Jet unwinds the bandages he put around the place where your skin was stripped from the meat of your calf.

Poison swears when Jet peels back the last wrapping. You can't get a real good look at whatever's underneath but no one's expressions're inspiring a whole lotta faith that everything's shiny. And _whoof,_ yeah, now you can smell it.

"Well, this stinks," you snicker, voice a little too high. Jet and Poison exchange a grim look.

Way to kill the fucking energy, asshole. Just like that, the post-clap euphoria's turned into a fucking triage. Jet needs a knife and he needs _fire_ and you're the only one with a spare lighter. You hand it to him, lie back on the Trans Am. 'Least this time the surgery's your fucking idea.

"You wanna belt?" says Kobra, real quiet. He leans close. Your ears ain't fully recovered from you shooting that bazooka so close but at this point you're kinda thinking they ain't gonna happen. You got shitty eyes already. Why not have a pair of shitty ears to go with 'em?

You nod once, a tiny jerk of your chin. Kobra's careful to check you for every step of the way when he lets you take it between your teeth, lays a hand on your shoulder. He meets your eyes. You read the question in the fractional tilt of his eyebrows and he reads the consent in yours. He presses down.

 _Don't blame me if you get a black eye,_ you tell Jet. Your smile's wide as ever, even if it tastes of leather.

Jet don't say a word.

He just heats the knife and starts cutting.

The world blanks out for a second. For one rapid pulse of your heart you got nothing in your head but the planed-out numb of your brain being unable to process the amount of pain you're in. By the time all your senses jar back into place -

You can't fucking think. The noise you're making's muted and guttural. You're biting so hard into the belt it hurts, so hard it feels like your teeth'll crack. The hood of the Trans Am's heat and lightning against your back, spine pressing a pained arch against it so the bones of your vertebrae dig agonizingly into the metal. Your face is wet. Hot tear tracks glaze your cheeks. Everything from the knee down is fucking incandescent.

At some point, Kobra wrapped one hand around yours and you grabbed it, gripping tight. Don't remember doing it, but your fingernails're driving deeper and deeper into the back of his hand. Wishing you could let go but you dunno how, _forgotten_ how. Forgotten how to do anything but try and fail to register the fact that nothing in your life has ever hurt _this fucking much_ 'cause at least when it was rayguns, when it was blisters, when it was heat rash, when it was any number of the things that've laid you out, it were quick and easy. It wasn't this prolonged, paralyzing _process_ where you can feel the necrotized flesh being stripped away from the meat of your leg with the edge of a hot blade.

Everything after a certain point goes shivery. You remember flashes. Pieces. Parts. The sound of Poison saying, _you got this, almost there._ The _look_ on the Kid's face, free hand pressed to his mouth, his expression ashen.

The fact that Jet couldn't look you in the eye for days afterward. You've had to stay off your leg since he cut into it, cauterized the bleeding with a knife seared red-hot. He's been checking it daily to make sure it don't get infected all over again.

But you know the angle of his head and the shuffle of his feet and the way he don't seem to wanna talk to you. It's guilt. Plain and simple.

You catch him alone one night, settle a hand on his shoulder. It's kind of a stretch, seeing as Jet's a giant motherfucker who's got well over a head on you. He leans into it, something you dunno if he realizes he does. Whenever someone touches him, he kinda melts into it a bit, 'long as he knows who's doing the touching. Even if he can't look at you straight, he relaxes the tiniest bit under the pressure of your fingers over the curve of his deltoid.

"Hey, spaceman."

His expression flickers a bit at that one. _There's_ the guy you know. The killjoy with an unflinching resolve who hates being called "spaceman" for whatever goddamn reason, who can cut through all the noise with a single quiet word, who can communicate profanity with more eloquence than anyone you've ever fucking met through a subtle twitch of his eyebrows alone.

"Thanks for cuttin' my leg up, yeah?"

Jet looks away.

"Hey, hey. I'm bein' serious here!" He don't get to shut down on you 'cause he don't like where this is headed, all right? "I need you to fuckin' look at me here, spaceman."

Jet huffs a little through his nose but meets your eyes steadily. See, he's easy. Like Poison, all you gotta do is keep him on his toes. Throw enough shit at either one of them and they pay attention to whatever you gotta say next, and that's kinda the whole goddamn point.

He never has any trouble meeting people's eyes. Not like you do, you little freak. People always figure you're lying. That's why the Attractions tossed you out, kicked you to the goddamn curb. 'Cause you was making up a lie and they found that real goddamn suspicious. Nobody ever fucking believes you. 

"I'd probably be fuckin' dusted if you hadn't. Or like, they'd have to cut off my leg or somethin'. I'd be hoppin' all over the Zones on one leg. Can y'imagine it?" You demonstrate for a second, hop erratically on your good foot. "I'd be a fuckin' pogo stick! Watch out, BLi - I'm comin' for you. Just stay there and don't shoot and don't move for a good five minutes while I _hop my ass over there,_ all right?"

The corner of Jet's mouth twitches. Still shit at hiding when his expression wants to crack into a smile.

"Look, man. I'm tellin' you this 'cause when push comes t'shove and whatever - I wouldn't you to've done anything different. You had my back. I got yours. All right?"

You squeeze his shoulder once and you get ready to move back and go limping on back to the car, but Jet catches your hand in his own and hangs onto it a second.

"Thanks."

The word is low and gravelly, like he ain't spoken all day. Maybe he hasn't.

You wave him off.

"Yeah, yeah. Don't let it go t'your head, starfucker."

**\--**

**perhaps, we are always hurtling our body towards  
the thing that will obliterate us**

**\--**

The Kobra Kid figures out how to break into BLi vending machines.

That weren't a thing you figured were even _possible,_ but you're learning that "impossible's" just a word in this crew. The four of you, you don't _do_ impossible. You look at the tools you've got on hand and you take what you want and you make it real through sheer force of will.

Kobra's been working on and off this handheld thing for a long damn while. Next time you stop near one of the old gas stations in the Zones, it's one that's run by one of the masked motherfuckers in a Dead Pegasus bodysuit. They fill up your vehicle, count the gallons, while Kobra wanders over to the vending machine these places've always got and hooks his gadget up to it. He taps a couple buttons and _clunk._ He bends down, picks up a battery pack and weighs it in his palm.

Free of fucking charge.

"Hey." The attendant turns to snap at him. "You gonna pay for that?"

Kobra regards them steadily, his expression unchanging. Then he taps a couple more buttons on his gizmo.

_Clunk. Clunk. Clunk._

Without breaking eye contact, he stoops down and retrieves three more battery packs and tucks them into his jacket pockets with such a brazen, deliberate lack of giving a fuck that in that second you get full well how he and Poison're related.

 _"Hey."_ The attendant advances on him. Poison blocks the way nice and casual - with a sidestep and a cock of their hip and a tip of their head. They smile, thin and dangerous. They got this thing called _subtlety_ that you know you sure as hell could never pull off.

"Keep side street, sunshine," says Poison, low and easy. Their hand rests on the raygun at their hip.

The station attendant regards them for a long moment before moving back to their position.

"The _fuuuuck."_ You're all over Kobra's new gadget in a second, scrambling over to stare at it eagerly.

"Free shit," says Poison. They grin when they clap him on the shoulder, knock an elbow into his ribs companionably. That's their way of saying _nice job, brother._ "What say we rob a few motherfuckers BL/ind, huh?"

You plunder the everloving shit outta that vending machine. The four of you take every last raygun, bat-pack, and bottle of water that the thing contains and then, just to make a point, you kick it over and trash what's left of it. Soak it in rubbing alcohol and set it on fire and turn the white to smoldering, charred black. You watch that blandly happy logo melt into something coal-burned and unrecognizable as the flames gnaw it into ash.

That's for getting rammed up against a vending machine your first day out in the Zones. That's for every killjoy that was starving or dying of thirst and didn't have the _okane_ when they needed it. That's for every time you got the shit beaten outta you in front of one of these fucking things.

You strip that machine for every goddamn thing you can take from it, load up the car, and head off to Chow Mein's to make a fucking profit.

Chow Mein might hate your guts but he lets you and Kobra negotiate pricing for the bundle of rayguns you've brought to his storefront. He won't turn his nose up at that kinda sale, no matter who's selling. Kobra sure as hell can't be missing the filthy looks he keeps firing both your ways while it goes down, but he stays impassive as ever. If it bothers him, he don't breathe a word of it.

One of the best things about the Kobra Kid, if you're honest.

"C'mon." Kobra jerks his chin at one of the aisles. "Poison wanted to touch up the car."

'Course they did. Poison's always laying more and more color and symbols and all sorts of shit onto the thing. It were barely anything special the day you sighted it, and now look at it. It's got words painted on the side. It's got Destroya's name written on one of the doors. It's got words mounted on the dash, stickers that've been sun-fried to the metal. It's getting coats of color that make it stand out like a smear of chaos in the dust. _Cosmic Thrust. Electrokat. Zonerunner._ A million other little words. Poison wants to slather it in a bunch of new shades and if that's what they want, then hey, they're free to do it. They trade off with that kinda thing with Kobra.

You never been one to care much for the exterior of cars. It's all about the insides that count. But even you gotta say that for a tricked-out ride, it's got all sorts of _flash._

You snag a couple domino masks with the crate of paints you carry back outside, 'cause Jet's been running without a mask for a long-ass time, hasn't he? Guy should have a mask. Maybe he's got a shiny-ass helmet, but that don't mean he shouldn't still have a mask to keep his soul someplace safe. Then, 'cause you're fresh outta ink and it's been a long damn time since you've put anything new into your skin, you chuck a bottle of ink and a couple of fresh needles into the deal.

What follows is several hours' worth of repainting guns and masks and touching up all the detailings that each of you've got on your person. The sun ain't settled against the horizon yet so the light's still good, slanting golden bands out across the ground, but none of you are all that keen to go motoring off anywhere 'till the evening hits. Gives you some time to kill. Jet claims one of the dominos and paints it, red streaks on a blue base. He adds a couple words to the barrel of his gun. You lean over to get a look at what he's writing there and bite back a snort when you read 'em.

_BECAUSE I SAID SO._

Heard those words from him more than once. Might as well, right? 

For your part, you're busy laying a careful rendition of your symbol onto either side of your gun's handle - yellow with black stitching and one eye X-ed out, as ever. Almost miss the fact that Poison's started to paint red and white stripes down one side of the Trans Am.

"Flag gang!" you blurt, surging to your feet.

You knock a can of paint onto Kobra's boots. He puts you in a headlock for that one. You bite the shit outta his wrist 'till he lets go, swearing, and knocks across the cheek instead. His heart ain't really in it. You can tell 'cause you're still standing, only stumble and wobble when he decks you. You and him're midway through trying to get your hands around each other's throats when you note that Poison's moved on to the hood of the car, painting eight spindly, jagged spider's legs across the shiny expanse.

"Huh." You pause in the middle of trying to push Kobra's head back so you can yank him close and knee him in the gut. Kobra shoves you away but you ain't looking at him anymore. "The flag I get, but what've you got goin' for spiders?"

"'Cause we're eight legs strong." Poison's focus is absolute on their work. They don't look at you when they say it. "Eight legs to catch the flies for the BL/ind."

Eight legs. Four killjoys.

Ain't no running from it now. 

You're the Fabulous Four.

You still got your needle, and you got yourself a fresh bottle of ink from Tommy's to go with it. That's the night you consider your options, consider if this is a thing you wanna do and - 

You think this might be the longest you've been with this many people at once. You dunno how long you been with anyone, how long you been with GoGo, but this? This is its own category. You've taken laser blasts for these people. You've driven their cars, carried their masks, put everything on the fucking line for them. They ain't never kicked you clean out. Never turned their fucking backs on you. It's the longest anyone's put up with you.

You dunno how the fuck you'd define it other than the obvious.

_Eight legs strong._

You sketch out the design several times before you settle on it. In the end, you go with the same one that Poison painted on the Trans Am hood that very same day. A spider with long, crooked legs, and a lightning bolt on its thorax, on your left arm, opposite your ink of the Witch's eye.

It's careful, painstaking work. Ain't no taking it back now.

That's all right.

You're gonna be running with these motherfuckers 'till the end, you've decided. If it takes you first, well, all the fucking better. You're sick of being the first one booted out. Be nice to go out with a smile for once. A real one.

It splays down the length of your inner arm, dark and spiky. A spider, eight legs, all black ink and lightning. It stings when you do it. Bleeds a little.

Never minded bleeding, 'specially for a good cause. And these three crash queens're the best cause you've ever had the (mis)fortune to collect.

**\--**

**begging for love  
from the speeding passage of time**

**\--**

BLi don't like cars that guzzle gas, mostly 'cause they're all old relics of the time before Better Living were the biggest power in the world. They like sleek cars, floating cars, things that run on electricity and batteries. Battery power were one of the ways they got so big, according to the old history textbooks. You dunno if you buy that, but sure. Batteries is useful and can't get taken off no power grid if someone hits an entire country with a fucking pulse beacon.

But batteries've got nothing on the raw power of gasoline.

Point is that BL/ind'd _love_ to scrap all their fuel tanks and refineries but 'till their battery-powered tech gets to be widespread, they still gotta ship fuel to their shining white city to keep their dracs' motors running. Right now you're trying to unearth any old diesel from the underground tanks at an empty gas station, 'cause while grabbing fuel off BL/ind's got its own satisfaction to it, you'd be a goddamn moron not to at least try to get what you could outta any old station you find. Prospects ain't looking all that good. Usually when the attendants is gone that means there ain't much of anything worth picking over.

Everybody seems happy enough to let you do your thing while they get outta the car and stretch their legs for a minute. Kobra reads a magazine. Poison starts sawing a Dead Pegasus logo off some employee bodysuit they managed to dredge up. Jet takes up his familiar position, leaned against the car and scanning the horizon.

"Dr. D says this place used to be called Death Valley," Kobra says outta nowhere, ripping a page outta his mag. "Before the Helium Wars, anyway. They called it Death Valley."

Oh, that's fucking rich.

"Thought BLi didn't believe in prophecy," you snort. Destroya? The Phoenix Witch? Destined children and freedom for the masses? Fuck _that._ The only religion BL/ind needs is its own. The city folk worship the carbon and the pill bottle and the perfect straight line.

"You get grease in your ears?" Kobra's annoyance is mostly for show, 'cause he barely looks at you. "I said _before_ the wars."

Prophecy, huh?

"Then whoever named it was a real fucking fatidic motherfucker." Still remember that word. Stuck into the contours of your brain, like everything else in that damn book. _DESTROYA has heard our fatidic songs and knows our suffering._

"Shut the fuck up," says Kobra, whose annoyance don't sound like it's for show anymore. "You don't know what that word means."

"Prophetic," says Jet, right the fuck outta nowhere. Somehow it ain't the least bit surprising that he knows the word. Jet knows all kinds of shit. Live out here long enough, you'll pick up anything.

Can't help but laugh at that one, the look of muted aggravation Kobra darts his way, but you gotta work here, c'mon. Be easy enough to let the conversation lie at that, but _no,_ Poison's gotta be a little bitch about it.

"Pretty weird to put gas stations in the middle of a place called Death Valley," says Poison.

"Not here _specifically,"_ says Kobra, exasperated.

And you stop listening 'cause _fuck_ yeah, there's fuel in here. Probably not great quality since it's been sitting here for god knows how long but fuck it, better than nothing. Just gotta tweak things a bit to get it funneled into the tank so you can use the hose, and it'll be shiny.

"Never fucking mind," Kobra's saying. "You all can forget I said anything if you can't appreciate _history."_

"What history?" You pop back into view, hook one hand around the hose for the gas pump and start loading up the tank. "Not a care in the world for the BL/ind, right? _History's_ all squeaky-clean now. Painted up nice and white."

"Painted black," says Poison. 

You tug the nozzle free from the tank and check the levels in the pump. Still some dregs in there. Could score something outta that if you needed to. Depends on if Poison's willing to stick around and if that's a hill you're willing to kick some shins on. But when aren't you?

"Y'know," you call out to Poison, who's chatting with Jet, "if I can scrounge any spare gas, I could make some real good shit with this." You tug on the hose, hooked back into the pump. "If y'don't mind stickin' around a few more hours."

Poison gives the go ahead. Fuck yeah. Ain't no better incendiary agent than _gasoline,_ or whatever knockoff shit this is. Kobra gets antsy about sticking around here for whatever fucking reason but that ain't your problem. Impossible _not_ to notice him buzzing around, pacing on the spot, brushing in and outta the station, never standing still. The fuck's got him up in arms?

No neat and clean way to ask, and anyway you're busy bottling up some of the dregs of this fuel and goddamn but you're gonna be high off this shit for weeks the way it's blowing up your nostrils. The odd giggle slips out between your teeth. No one says a damn thing about it.

That's the weird bit. Been a while now and still no one in this crew looks at you twice for laughing when you shouldn't. Never tell you to shut the fuck up and stop acting like a freak.

Maybe 'cause they're all freaks here. There's Party Poison, smirking at a magazine before they start ripping it up. There's Jet Star, staring at some fucking spot in the distance like he's scared that if he looks away for a second he'll miss something coming. There's Kobra, nervous energy sunk into his bones to the point where he can't stay in one fucking place for more than two seconds.

And then there's you. Detonator, monster, killjoy. A freak who laughs at shit that ain't funny. A shit-stirrer. A Bat Rat then a Zone-rat then a runner then someone stripping the white away from BLi by degrees whenever you can.

Killjoy.

You've just about finished bottling up whatever trickles of fuel you could dig up from those underground tanks when Kobra scares the everloving shit outta you by barging outta the goddamn doors. You jump and swear under your breath and you catch Jet whipping around with his hand on his gun, ready to start shooting.

But Kobra's laughing, the bastard. Turns out he scored some food cache or another, found some non-perishable goods. Peanut butter and jerky. That's good shit, _pre-war_ shit. That's un-fucking-thinkable.

How the hell he managed to dig up a thing like that out here, you got no fucking clue. You'd say maybe the Witch has got an eye out for him, but the Witch watches the dead, not the living. Destroya, maybe.

Or maybe it's one of those gods that people seem to've forgotten, watching out for the Kobra Kid.

You dunno, but you ain't gonna question a stroke of luck like that one. It's the first time in your life you've ever had peanut butter. The taste is forever mingled with the scream of a shrill laugh outside open windows, the reek of diesel on the breeze, the peals of _Massive/Awesome_ crashing from the radio.

It's forever wrapped up in the sound and feel of the people you call home.

**\--**

**and so maybe  
like the dog obedient at my heels**

**\--**

Weird being somebody people recognize. Which you've kinda been before, just, y'know, never in a fucking good way. You been recognized like in the way that Chow Mein looks like he wants to throttle you ever time he sees you and the Demon-Sharks picking fights with whoever's stupid enough to drag you along. Not so much in other ways. Chow Mein glares at you whenever you're in one of his storefronts now but he don't pitch you out and he don't threaten you again, 'specially if you're with one of the others.

People're starting to whisper whenever one or more of you cross their sights. You attract looks sometimes. Takes a minute to gather that people ain't just giving you the stink eye like you're used to - that they're staring at you with wonder and awe and something so foreign that it takes you a second to recognize it as _respect._

"...hey. Um." It's a gangling kid with slender eyes and freckles speckling their cheeks that marshals the courage to speak up to you and the Kobra Kid while you're browsing some of Tommy's shelves. Behind them, a tight group of other kids've gathered up, whispering fervently to one another. Shit, they all look younger than you, even. Got this mask of plain white, practically brand new. Their drobe's the sorta ragged, odds-and-ends scrap that you associate with Bat Rats fresh outta the city.

The Kid stares at the undergrad and don't say anything, so it's down to you to be the fucking mouthpiece here. Here goes nothing.

"'Sup, tumbleweed?" The only expression you really got going for you is your crooked-ass smile and that usually gets you decked in the fucking face, but this time the undergrad smiles back a little, shyly. "Need somethin'?"

"Just...you're them, aren't you? You're Fun Ghoul and the Kobra Kid." The motorbaby speaks up a little louder now, seemingly emboldened by the fact that you acknowledged them in the first place.

You look to the Kid and find your own confusion mirrored back at you. He shrugs.

"Uh. Yeah. That's us." No point in lying, right? "Who's askin'?"

"I told you!" One of the kids behind them erupts into the triumphant yell. _"Told_ you it was them!"

"Shuddup, Pistolhead!"

"Nah, nah, you said it _weren't_ them! You owe me five carbons, _cabrón."_

"Holy hell, it's really them...that's really Party Poison's brother?"

"They're the ones that drove into that BLi convoy and raided the _crap_ outta the whole thing!"

"Gonna burn down Bat City!"

"Took a raygun right off a _scarecrow!"_

You and the Kid exchange another look. Tommy's now giving you _both_ a curt glower which means this cute little encounter's gonna start chafing at him fast. Don't give much of a fuck if Tommy throws _you_ out, but some of these kids look fresh from the city and them getting tossed to the curb'll mean they might very well not last. You ain't gonna let that be on you.

"Heads up behind the counter." You jerk a thumb over your shoulder to indicate Tommy, whose sharp stare's burning a pair of holes into the back of your head. Christ, why the fuck're _you_ playing at being the voice of reason here? That don't sit right. "The guy's a real jerk. He'll kick you out for good, y'know."

One of the kids throws Tommy a sour look. He stares back, nonplussed and stone-faced as ever. Keep it classy, Chow Mein.

"Fuck him anyway!" says another of the motorgoblins in a fierce whisper.

"Shh!"

"Swear to _Witch,_ Trillion."

Kobra wordlessly makes for the door. Half second later, you're following his lead with the gaggle of kids at your heels.

"So you're really them?" The one that addressed you first seems to be the leader, or at least the talker. Being brave enough to confirm the identity of a couple killjoys seems to've made their day. 

"Just said it, didn't I?" That don't put them off any. They're bouncing a little on their heels. Christ, did you really ever look that young? Being out in the Zones has aged you. Kind of a lot. "You got a name yet?"

"Rookie." One of the bigger kids elbows them in the side.

"Shut up, Trillion. I told you, it's _Riot."_

"Rookie Riot." You roll both words off the tongue, just 'cause. "Not a bad catch."

Better than _your_ first name, anyway.

The kid stares at you a second, then catches up with a bound.

"Yeah...yeah! Fuck it - I'm _Rookie Riot!"_ They sound so goddamned proud of themself that you gotta wonder what the fuck they're doing, tagging along after you. Kobra don't stop walking and he don't turn around. These kids're still on your seatwarmers.

"Somethin' you, uh, wanted, Riot?" you ask. Kobra's not one for smalltalk. Once again, the responsibility falls to you. As if you're any fucking good at it.

"Um." Riot deflates for a minute before marshaling their courage. "We wanted to know - if you'd - if you'd maybe give us your signs?"

Whatever the hell you'd been expecting, it sure as shit weren't that. You stop and stare at them.

"I...I mean like, like your face! The one with the mouth and the crossed out eye, y'know?" Riot closes one eye, holds a finger over it, and regards you hopefully. "We wanna say we met half of the Fabulous Four!"

 _The Fabulous Four._ Still don't feel entirely right. You look askance at Kobra and once again he kinda shrugs helplessly. The attention clearly ain't doing him any favors. He kinda looks like he'd rather be anywhere else right now, up to and including being swarmed by a shitton of dracs.

Well, fuck it. What the hell. You snort and turn back to Riot with your typical cocky grin.

"Y'got any paint?"

Kobra comes up with a surprisingly intricate symbol to appease the gang of motorbabies, a black and white cobra's head mounted on a red background. You leave them with your stitched-mouth grin, that parody of the BLi smile, and you watch them all bundle off in a dense group, chattering excitedly to one another, staring at the fresh stains of red and green on their masks and their guns.

"Th'fuck was that all about?" You don't expect an answer when you say it to Kobra all idle.

"...Poison was right," says Kobra. His expression of guarded befuddlement has given away to a scrunched-up recognition.

"Right about what?"

"We _are_ the enemy."

You and him watch the kids flurry off into the fiery orange cast of the setting sun.

"They wanna take us all back to war?" Not for nothing, but the track record of killjoys up against BLi ain't exactly been great.

"We've _been_ at war," says Kobra. "BL/ind never stopped fighting us."

Guess he ain't wrong there.

They're the enemy, and that makes you the enemy.

Like it or not, you're only getting louder, bigger, flashier. You run the same way you always have. You loot trucks, strip BLi supplies from the hands of dead dracs, agitate their patrols, but you're nowhere near the level of, say, the Burn-Flingers, who thrash drac convoys with enough intensity to score _real_ goods from their boxes. So why you? Why's it your names on the radio, on the tongues of kids who ask for your symbols or write songs for the airwaves? People've started spraying your shit all over BL/ind vending machines, on city walls. The eight-legged spider that's started to get to be synonymous with the four of you. Your slashed-eye, stitched-grin symbol, or Party Poison's X-and-pill banner.

Sure, you been recognized before. Just...never like this.

Never once has it been like this.

**\--**

**we can walk together  
peacefully**

**\--**

The rumors keep spreading, but the four of you carry on the way you always have. You dust dracs. You watch each other's backs. Poison glimpses your spider tattoo and smirks, hard-angled and self-assured. It should ignite something loud and retaliatory in you but instead draws out something answering in you, a bladed grin to match theirs.

Your days're filled with gasoline and laser burns and whoops and Mad Gear. Your nights're sleeplessness and the agonizing notion that, inevitably, it'll all fall to shit. _When's it gonna happen?_ It always happens.

It ain't happened yet. Only a matter of time 'till it does.

These're the kinds of thoughts you have while you lay on the hood of the car with your arms folded behind your head, face up to the distant and fogged-up stars. You still use your PTTP to pick up on whatever stations you can find, even if the signals're pretty shit. Far as you know, you're the only one still awake.

Makes sense. You're on watch.

You crank at the transmitter volume and light up a cigarette. The noise keeps you alert when the exhaustion starts to itch at your eyelids, and your job's to watch everybody's asses when they're asleep, so you ain't gonna screw this up, all right?

Interference cuts up the snarl of the guitars. You scowl, tweak the knobs around. You ain't trying to tune into static here.

_" - Power Pup. All rights reserved. Any violation will result in alteration, disloc - "_

Ha _ha,_ nope. You twist the dial furiously.

 _"My god...NewsAGoGo down."_ You don't recognize the voice. Don't keep your stomach from twisting. _"They're in the Zones. Don't let them find you alive."_

What. _What?_

Your heart rabbit-kicks in your throat.

Fuck, fuck, c'mon. Your PTTP - you key it into the frequency you know is GoGo's. _C'mon, c'mon._ You smack the side of it, growling between gritted teeth, but you only get static. You know the range on this thing is unreal, and you ain't that far from her base of operations. _C'mon!_

All you get's the pitched buzz of dead air.

_"This station is no longer operational. Have a BETTER d - "_

You flick it off and fling it away like it's burned your fingertips.

Fuck. Fuck.

No. No goddamn way. Hang on. That shit's all up in the Zones, sure, but that don't mean anything. You scuttle at the transmitter, grab it back, but goddamnit, you busted it up pretty good when you threw it. It's all glitched up. Get nothing but static, _fuck._ You scrabble to realign the signal. C'mon, c'mon, _please -_

Turn the knobs, flick the dials. There's nothing on GoGo's channel but empty tones and the same message on a loop: _"This station is no longer operational. Have a BETTER day. This station is no longer operational. Have a BETTER day. This station is no longer operational. Have a BETTER day. This station is no longer operational - "_

No. _No,_ c'mon. What was the other freq? Or - fuck, Dr. Death'd know, right? He knows her. She wanted to have his station on dial 'cause they was pals. C'mon, _c'mon,_ you know D's frequency by now. Poison and Kobra've tuned into it often enough, right?

You hit it in time to hear Dr. Death Defying murmuring in a low, somber tone that don't sound nothing like the bombast of his earlier broadcasts.

 _" - too late to save NewsAGoGo. All I can do now is play them a song..."_ It fades out to the drone of a steady drumbeat and a plodding bass line.

No. No, no, no, no, _come on._ Switch the channel, change the transmission.

 _"Fist first, MOTHERFUCKER!"_ crows an unfamiliar voice. _"This one goes out to you, Cola!"_

Goddamnit. You told them, you _told_ them to move. You _told them to move_ 'cause otherwise BLi was gonna find them and look at that. Figured it out, didn't they? Fuck.

What's it matter? What's it fucking matter? People die in the Zones. People die out here all the goddamn time.

_Not her. Can't be._

_Not her._

There's nothing. Nothing but static and noise and nothing about _how this happened_ and _why._ It's a sick clench in your stomach, a hand squeezed around your heart. _Not her, not her._ What the fuck'd you think was gonna happen? Said it was gonna happen. It was always gonna happen. _Get it together, get it together, get it together, god._

You bite into the knuckles of your hand. All you can do to keep the _noise_ from churning outta your chest, boiling into the air. The grief-stricken _rot_ of your soul's threatening to rupture outta you in a roar of blood and carrion. Take a knife, spin it 'round on yourself, dig it into the crook of your collarbone, the place where the v-shape peaks at your ribs, _split_ yourself open 'till your organs come steaming out, _scream_ yourself sick 'till there's nothing _fucking_ left. Rip it all the fuck apart. Should do it, should do it _now,_ carve a fucking _hole_ down your front to match the one in your fucking soul.

"Ghoul."

Fuck. Woke somebody up. You can't - you're making raw, hitching sounds, ugly hiccups and burps of the sound you're fighting to keep bottled in. Sounds like you're dying. _Feels like you're dying -_ shut up, shut up you know what dying feels like and _this ain't it._

"Ghoul?"

_Shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up -_

The silhouette that drops down next to you's slender and tall and the night dyes the bleach mop a darkened blue but you can tell by the distribution of the weight that it's Kobra. He sits close, only a couple inches gapped between you. You crouch, huddled up, teeth sunk into your hands like that'll keep the sickening sounds from curdling outta your throat.

Kobra don't say a word.

There's iron and salt in your teeth from how hard you been gnawing your hand. You rock back, try to straighten up, try to act like a _fucking normal human being for goddamn once_ but it comes apart in the next second and you dunno when that happened or _how_ just that you're half-collapsed against the Kobra Kid biting your tongue to keep from sobbing like some _fucking kid_ as if you're anything but a helpless fucking kid who drives people away and fucks them up and _ruins_ them that's what you do you _ruin them_ you fuck up their lives and you make everything worse just by being there how dare you pretend to be helpless to feel lost to feel like you lost anything when it was you doing the _taking_ you goddamn beast you _monster -_

Kobra's arm is a steady drape around your back, hand a careful pressure around your shoulder.

You more or less fall against him, the front of your face pressed into his shirt like that'll muffle the ugly wrench of sounds you can't quit making.

Takes you a minute to register that there's attached to some of them.

_"She's gone, she's gone, she's gone she's gone she's gone - "_

Kobra's dead quiet through all of it. He lets you leak your tears and snot and spit all over him while you fucking sob for the first fucking time in your life and he wraps his arms around you a little tighter and he don't say a goddamn thing.

He don't need to.

Can't remember the last time anybody hugged you. If anybody ever has.

"I'm here," says Kobra.

He stays with you 'till your eyes're dry and the sun warms the horizon while he lets you fall apart in front of him.

When the sun rises and everyone's awake again, he don't breathe a goddamn word of it.

**\--**

**at least until the next truck comes.**

**\--**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> > 1\. A couple more shout-outs this chapter, as always. The gang name "Burn-Flingers" is a reference to the Supergiant roguelite, _Hades_ (of which I played an obscene amount during restricted movement hours). The title to this chapter is a paraphrase of yet another Pete Wentz quote (of which, yes, I do have a limitless supply). This chapter also contains a small shoutout to the Bastille track "The Anchor" off their 2016 album, _Wild World,_ as well as a line borrowed from "The Gift of Paralysis" off of Envy on the Coast's 2007 album _Lucy Gray._ The bit character of "Peroxide Prince" is a blatant shoutout to the greatest album of all time, Fall Out Boy's 2008 release _Folie á Deux_ \- specifically the track "Headfirst Slide into Cooperstown on a Bad Bet." There are probably a few Fall Out Boy references I've dribbled in there as well. The poem between the line breaks "The Leash," by Ada Limón.
>> 
>> 2\. More poor, sketchy renditions of Ghoul's tattoos! Only two this chapter, despite its exorbitant length: some simple recreations of [his twelfth](https://i.imgur.com/tGmtC3I.png) and [thirteenth](https://i.imgur.com/bpBBcBt.png) tattoos respectively.
>> 
>> 3\. I'd like to stress again that you should not be tattooing yourself if you don't know what you're doing. The same goes for the DIY medical procedures that occasionally feature in this chapter.
>> 
>> 4\. The final stretch of this chapter features a lot of dialogue that I lifted almost directly from the canon character Twitters. While I did adjust and restructure some of the specifics, for the most part that dialogue is not my own and I merely borrowed it - right down to the [song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ou7P0QX25IY&feature=youtu.be) that Dr. Death Defying chose to [play for NewsAGoGo](https://twitter.com/DrDeathDefying/status/25745257212). So yes, that little plot point is fully canon. Enjoy that.
> 
>   
> Feel free to [poke my tumblr](https://graffitibible.tumblr.com/) if you like! 


	5. you are the smoke to my cancer (you are the sun, you are my laughter)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prior to reading the final part of this installment, please be advised of the following content warnings. First of all, you may assume that many of the warnings listed at the beginning of this work will remain in effect. In particular, I'd like to note that this section deals with a lot of insecurities and fears that tie back to Fun Ghoul's history with abuse. Bear in mind that his perception of himself is heavily flawed, and the conclusions Ghoul comes to are not always accurate.
> 
> In addition, this chapter features quite a bit of violence and descriptions of gore, as well as a description of several injuries, including significant eye trauma. Intrusive thoughts and suicide ideation do continue to crop up in Ghoul's internal monologue. There are some discussions that touch upon themes of grief, loss, and unacknowledged PTSD. Both major and minor character deaths feature in this chapter, as I'm sure you can imagine.
> 
> If I've left out any content warnings that are relevant, please don't hesitate to let me know.

**\--**

**i woke up with a flame searing down my side -  
growing pains, round two**

**\--**

Feels like it should be raining.

DJ Weatherman called for a week's worth of acid storms. Said it'd be bucketing down hard for the foreseeable future. What you take from that is that you're gonna have a lotta cranky waveheads in the Zones, missing their daily dose of ultraviolet and ready to make some poor bastards sore over it.

It should be raining, and maybe in the Zones, it is. But you ain't in the Zones just now. The air is motionless - no breeze, no humidity, no aridity. The lack of heat prickles goosebumps up along the expanse of your arms, the dark olive flecked with patterns written in ink.

Guess some part of you never quite shook the feel of the walls around you, way it felt to be fenced in by city buildings stretching up to the fucking sky. Everything in Battery City's built into a neat little grid system. Hard and cold and polished and _perfect_ and unchanging, right down to the forecast. Pale gray skies. Weather control. Every day's the goddamn same: temperature a pleasant seventy-two degrees, everyone shuffling along their predetermined routes to work and to school and home again. Tune your headphones into the following channels at these times exactly. Keep our city clean. Have a Better day.

You're hunkered down in the inner city and you're waiting. Everything here's nicer than what you was used to in the city. Tall skyscrapers, streets kept spotless, and at the heart of it all, the Battery Towers. It's the Central Sector, where all the important shit's kept. Too important for a piece of shit like you to've ever gone near an area like this one back when you was stuck in here. Even the storefronts and vending machines and info kiosks you'd passed along the way were unfamiliar, glossed with a cleanliness that you'd never be able to find in the Lobby.

No time to stop and admire the fucking scenery. You got a job to do. Your boots tap against the neat concrete sidewalks as you walk. Ordinarily there'd be a shitton of security in the area, but most of them're kinda being held up - bit preoccupied with the roar of a motor and the sound of raygun fire while the other three members of your crew raise a little hell. They dropped you off a little ways back 'cause they needed a distraction and you're the best one for the job.

That, and you don't wanna be the one picking off dracs just now. You don't wanna be the one who sees their faces up close when they go down. You don't wanna be wondering if you shot the bolt that ends up cutting down whatever soulless husk is left of NewsAGoGo. Assuming they're still in here. Assuming BLi didn't ghost her when they nabbed the station. Assuming a lotta things.

Getting off track here.

Focus. Breathe.

Fall apart later.

The streets're dark, most lights dimmed down. It's after curfew. You're a kid again, slinking along in the graffitied and postered walls of the Lobby while the beams of whitejacket flashlights cut through the dimness in the hunt for delinquents. Your breath's sharp and rapid. Hurts your chest. Heart's going so fast it aches.

_Focus._

No one here. No one on this corner but the streetlights and you and the fogged-up smoky-black sky.

You came here to get a job done. The other three need a diversion, and you're it.

You agreed to this.

Can't take a second to remind yourself of this - that you _agreed_ to this.

_"Don't believe any of you fought in the Analog Wars," says Dr. Death. "Imagine that was before your time."_

That's how he'd started things out. A story about some wars that you never fought in, wars that was over the day you hit the Zones.

 _"We had a leader," says D. He sounds almost reverent the longer he goes on. "She was...she was somethin' else. Brighter'n anything we'd known. She was headin' the charge, incitin' the masses. She had a following behind her. And a lot of us,_ most _of us - we thought she could do it. That was the thing. We really thought she could do it."_

Well, that was his goddamn mistake, weren't it?

The other three are raising fire and hell. Poison's probably driving the car slapdash through the streets, knocking over trash cans, bowling into dracs. The Trans Am's belching exhaust fumes into the neatly partitioned streets of the city and staining them with the stink of a killjoy. You can picture Kobra and Jet, guns up, leaned out the windows to pick off the opposition as the Trans Am rockets forward.

_"...didn't shake out," D sighs. "BLi vaporized Zone Seven. Ended the Wars, caught our fearless leader, and strapped that draculoid mask over her like it was nothin'. Wanted to send a message. Wanted to teach us all what'd happen if we messed too badly with the powers that be."_

Now there's shouts. Everyone's busy with the ruckus Poison and the others're raising in front of the facility where they're keeping the target.

Feels wrong to think of it like that. _The target._

_"But there was somethin' they weren't bankin' on." Dr. Death leans forward, his tone deepening. "Our leader, she was pregnant. We didn't know it. BL/ind didn't know it. Hell, I'm not sure they put it together 'til it was obvious."_

Nobody's around. Every muscle in your body's drawn taut as a spring coil, waiting for the flicker of movement to signal that someone's seen you, that it'll all go fucking Costa Rica, that you been had.

Still nothing.

 _"But now they got this kid of hers," Dr. D continues. "They got this kid and they're keepin' her shut up in one of their reeducation centers, and I'm willin' to bet that it's because they know she's something_ special."

 _"Special?" says Poison, skeptical. "Special_ how?"

_"You think they'd assign this girl her own bodyguard unit headed by one of BL/ind's best scarecrows if she weren't special? Think they'd build a special little cell just to keep her there for fun? They know something's up with her. Don't think they know what."_

He hadn't gotten much more specific than that. Just that something's up with her. Something about her that BL/ind don't get.

As if they ever cared to _know_ anything about anybody other than how to keep them in line.

 _"But once she's old enough, they're gonna start dosin' her up and druggin' her outta her mind, the way they do everybody in Battery City. And we..." He almost falters for a bit, but he soldiers on._ "I _owe her. Her mom, she never went on to the Witch. This kid's her only legacy. All we got left of her. And I'll be damned if I let her grow up in those city walls."_

So that's why you're here. To get some kid that Dr. Death swears is special, even if he didn't say how. All he'd say is that he _believed she could be something extraordinary._ Sure. Whatever the fuck that's supposed to mean.

According to him, you're the only people who could pull it off.

Like any of you wanted this. Like any of you _wanted_ to head to the heart of Bat City, volley yourselves straight into the pit of the fucking thing you've spent every waking moment fighting. It's a hell of a caper that'll paint some real fucking targets on your backs, assuming you don't get yourselves ghosted right here and now. But how the fuck were you gonna turn down a job like that? Like you weren't gonna do what you could to ruin BL/ind's day.

Like you weren't gonna do something for the sake of some kid that don't matter any, 'cept even if it's just a kid, it's a kid who ain't on the pills yet.

It's giving a kid the kinda chance that none of you ever got.

Poison turned down all the help Dr. Death offered. Schematics, an access underpass into the city used by scarecrows - whose _notes_ was he using for that, you gotta wonder? Whose _architectural city specs,_ huh? - but whatever, right? They chose audacity. 'Course they would.

You're the reason they're supposed to get out. Better not fucking fail them now, right?

The broadcast towers're how the Battery gets all its shit into the city airwaves. Your PTTP, glitched-up as it is, buzzed mad with BLND freqs this deep into the labyrinth of streets, its alarming so insistent that you had to take out the batteries so it wouldn't chime off and alert anybody nearby. Not that you've had to fucking worry about that; the streets're pretty empty around here. Everybody's focused on the trio of killjoys blowing a hole toward their highest security facilities like a bunch of maniacs.

The Bat's got all these masts in its heart, set up next to its transmission stations. Ready and waiting to beam all the right garbage into everybody's headphones and television sets at each preset, predetermined time. It were a tangled-up skeleton of one of these things that you saw in the desert once. Someone set a bomb off near it. Nearly killed you and GoGo.

Time to see how much explosive punch you gotta pack into one of these things to really topple it.

The structural damage it'll do's really gonna suck. This ain't a residential district - the Central Sector's mostly full of administrative bullshit. Don't gotta worry about catching your average B-cells in the blast radius, you're pretty sure.

You hope.

What point is there in _hope?_ Like hope's ever got you anywhere. You're a goddamn killjoy. You got no room in your blood for wishes. You take shit and you make it _real._ That's a killjoy's fucking job.

You packed every goddamn explosive you had on hand, every possible incendiary component you could cobble together on short notice, stuffed 'em all into the bag that used to carry every worldly possession you had back when you was wandering solo. You start setting things up in every configuration you can think of, every part of the broadcast tower you can reach. Homemade plastique, pipebombs, the special detonations you cooked up in limeade canisters, gasoline cans, everything you got. You're gonna need a mighty big _boom_ to keep the scarecrows off your brothers' backs. The issue's that you're never gonna have enough firepower to take down the tower all on your own, nah. What you have to do is take out some very specific _parts_ of the tower, all the little support pieces. From then, all you gotta do's let gravity take care of the rest, drag the thing down so that it smashes up the concrete and crushes a couple buildings in the process. Perfect fucking cover for getting outta the city.

All you really need's the nitro-cored explosives that you stick to the underside of a couple very specific metal supports. It were Sonic Doom who got you the compound, snatched it outta some of those high-security transport trucks the Burn-Flingers're so fond of raiding, but it were you who did the rigging to get the high-powered detonation set and ready to take out a whole goddamn city block if you gotta. Gotta climb the structure a bit to get at the parts of the tower you need to reach, but you manage. The rest...that's just window dressing. There for a smokescreen, for a spectacle. That were the important bit, Poison specified: make sure it's a _hell_ of a spectacle.

And it sure as fuck will be.

Now you just gotta wait for the signal. There's trails of smoke coiling up into the night sky, already shaded in smog, and the periodic flashes of light tell you exactly where you gotta look to watch for the signal when it comes.

It don't take long. Three flashes of red pumped into the sky, straight up, and that's all you need to know.

You set the tower alight.

The block comes down with enough force that you feel it as much as you hear it while you're running for your goddamn life. Ash and powder and rubble blown into the air behind you, staining you with dust and grit, and you turn around to get an eyeful of the conflagration and inhale a mouthful of hot soot instead. It's all over you: in your hair, in your eyes, in your nostrils. You cough 'till you start laughing and then you laugh 'till you choke.

It were years ago when you burst outta this city. You set a stack of TVs alight so you could make for the desert and nearly die of dehydration in the sand. It were the same night that the BL/ind set Zone Seven on fire and ended a long, bitter war. You made it into the Zones in time to suffer the echoes of a conflict you barely knew existed.

Don't feel like it were that long ago, but it was. You were a kid then. (You're basically still a kid now.)

Funny how you manage to return the favor.

**\--**

**an angry wasp digging its way  
between my hipbone**

**\--**

Logically, you can remember what being a kid was like, only you weren't never a kid and you grew up way the hell too fast to ever really consider yourself one. But you remember, kinda, what it were like with everything being so much fucking _bigger_ than you.

Now everything's still bigger, but the shine's worn off. You know it ain't all as big as it seems.

This kid, she's this tiny-ass little thing and you figure she's still learning all the ins and outs of that. You're in the back of the Trans Am with her and Poison while Kobra drives, arms stiff and knuckles white against the wheel. He'd rather not be the one driving, and hell, _you'd_ kinda rather be the one driving so you don't gotta be the one handling this _kid_ but there's no time for anything but getting the _fuck_ out of Bat City while your distraction's still enough to keep the worst of the whitejackets off your backs.

You can pick the kid up easy, grab her so that she don't stick her head too far out the windows and topple onto the goddamn street. She don't fight it. She laughs when she ends up in your lap, and you ruffle her hair with one hand without knowing why you're doing it. It's slightly springy underneath your palm. When it grows out, it'll grow _out_ and not down, puffing out in bouncy curlicues. It's been shaved BL/ind short but it ain't always gonna be that way.

Frankly you wasn't expecting to clear the city line once you barged in. Weren't expecting the diversion Poison had you set up was gonna _work_ but it did - and you stuffed enough dynamite into the broadcast tower for the answering explosion to blow out every window on the block. The dracs and crows gave chase but the four of you was already redlining outta the city, leaving exhaust fumes and devastation in your wake. The Girl dunno a thing about any of you, but you broke her outta BL/ind custody so she must figure you're the good guys.

She don't seem real scared of any of you either. Once the adrenaline burns off, mostly she seems kinda wary, like she dunno what the fuck to expect. You ain't dracs and you ain't BLi. That much's pretty obvious, gotta be to a kid like her. 

Either way, she's painted a target on your backs. You knew it would, but goddamn. You ain't never seen _bounties_ get set on killjoy heads before - 'least, not this far out into the Zones. Even old news articles from Bat City only demanded information, not the offer of c's in exchange for bodies. You start seeing them immediately once you start zigzagging through the Zones: posters and fliers stuck up to walls on old gas stations and half-burnt shells of ruins, calling for your capture and delivery to the hands of BLi.

Kid's made you some real fucking big priorities to the BL/ind. And now you dunno what the fuck you're supposed to do with her.

You keep your distance. Kinda hard to do when you're five to the Trans Am, packed together tight, and half the time you're sat right the hell next to her.

She don't have a name. Or if she does, she dunno it. That's fine. You didn't have a name when you escaped the city, not at first. You only had a word you took and made your own. You ever need to get her attention, to tell her to get the fuck down 'cause there's dracs coming, you know how to do it. You shout, _"hey kiddo,"_ or _"move your ass, half-pint,"_ and it gets the message across easy enough.

She's the Girl. You look at her and you don't see nobody special, don't see no prophesied messiah or whatever the fuck Dr. D was going on about. You just see some kid, young and scared and still figuring shit out. You figure right then and there that she don't need to know if people're holding her up as some kinda savior for the desert, some extraordinary power that'll bring down BLi. She don't need that hanging over her head. You fucking kidding? Nobody needs that.

Nobody else brings it up neither. There ain't much time for it. You're too busy running.

She catches on quick to what you gotta do to stay alive out here. She runs, ducks, dodges, easy as any killjoy. She listens when one of you tells her to get back or keep her head down or to run.

Two weeks of this. She don't say much at first, 'till maybe it gets to be more obvious to her that the four of you are her friends, kinda. You're on her side, anyway, more than BL/ind ever was.

After the first week, she starts talking. Little things, mostly. Nothing fancy. Clipped words, answers to yes or no questions. Couple days later, she grabs your hand like it's a fucking reflex when Kobra and Poison're arguing about their distance from the city. She releases it at once.

 _What the fuck're you doing?_ The times you might've grabbed for his hand 'cause you was alone and scared - god, you don't remember a time when you ever did it though you swear you must've. Must've hugged at your dad for comfort once, right? 'Cept all you remember's the impact of skin on skin.

Like hell that's gonna be you.

You hold out your hand to her instead.

"C'mon, pumpkin," you say, like every memory of every slap to your cheek ain't cycling through your brain at a dense clip. "Don't worry 'bout the city. We're faster'n them. Killed more dracs than you can shake a stick at, or whatever."

She grabs your hand and hangs onto it tight. Not enough to hurt, but her fingers pinch.

The city scares her. Guess that ain't a shocker. BL/ind wants her back and oh do they _fucking_ want her back. They don't give you a goddamn moment's rest. The trip back to D's supposed to take a couple days at the most, but with all the claps, all the backtracking, all the rerouting you do, it takes over two weeks.

BL/ind don't waste no time, either. They send their pigs into the dust in droves. Crows comb the sands. Dracs light up Zone-rats with increased fervor. You pass more bodybags in the span of those two weeks than you have in months. Mere days after your break-in, BL/ind starts slapping posters with your features up on buildings, on walls, on their vending machines. Guessing that drac patrols've started leaving that shit up in the hopes that a couple zonerunners'll sell out some of their own.

Staring at the digital reconstruction of your own face twists something up in you. It ain't the fact that they got you wrong in all these little ways, the arrangement of your bone structure after you've had your cheek smashed and your nose broken and your lip split and a dozen other injuries you can't remember acquiring. It's more the fact that for all the shit they got wrong, they got one thing right.

You wore a pair of glasses for all of a week before they was busted off the bridge of your nose in the schoolyard. Supposed to improve your shitty eyesight.

It runs a chill under your skin, slithers a sickening coil up in your guts.

Like someone up top knows you. Knows who you were. 

Your eyes is blotted out, even if the blocky, pale frames of the glasses they digitally edited on're clear as fucking day. _**EXTERMINATE**_ , it says over the black bar stretched across your face. Got this red X carved across the whole thing.

It's a dead-on reconstruction of a poster you remember seeing once in the back of Tommy Chow Mein's, only neither you nor any of the others were lucky enough to retain your masks or helmets or anything the way the Paranoid Frankuloid was.

Naturally you make a joke of it before ripping the thing up. You poke fun at Jet's, which only vaguely looks like him. Poison laughs, but it don't reach their eyes.

You knew this going in. Knew it'd suck, that BLi wouldn't let this shit lie. Didn't you?

Sixteen days after your break-in and the subsequent destruction of one of the Battery City broadcast towers, and about thirteen days longer than any of you figured this was gonna take, you finally make a pit stop at Dr. D's. Poison and Jet head inside to meet with him while you and Kobra're set on flyswatter duty. Don't see any bugs around. Technically a good thing, unless you're the Kobra Kid and you need something to do with your hands. Which _you_ don't, but the Kid's anxiety's always been obvious. He fidgets. He's been fiddling with his latest invention, a power glove with enough mechanical force to snap a drac's neck, but lately that ain't eating up his time so much anymore. He don't like sitting still. His agitation's practically contagious, 'cause pretty soon the Girl's shifting around in her seat too.

"Can't fuckin' do this," mutters Kobra, and he clambers outta the back seat. Leaves you alone in the car with the Girl. Like that's a good fucking idea. Nobody should be leaving kids with you, all right? Not with you. Not with you being a fucking detonator, being what you are being the _way_ you are, hell no.

"Hey - _hey._ Goddamnit, Kobra - "

He's already out the door. The Girl's looking at you and you can't fucking _leave_ her in here but you don't wanna be stuck here _alone_ with her either, all right? Jesus.

Just for a second. Just for a second. You gotta get outta the damn car and make sure Kobra ain't about to fucking combust, all right?

"Kid, what the hell? Don't fuckin' _ditch me_ , all right?"

Kobra don't answer. He runs his hands through his hair. It's starting to darken at the roots again, coming in brown.

"Th'fuck's wrong with you, huh?" Coming from anybody else, it'd sound like you're giving him a hard time. Kobra knows you well enough by now. Knows that you're giving him shit 'cause it's the only way you got of making sure he ain't actually about to lose it.

"I can't..." He rubs at the back of his neck with one hand, shivering slightly in a way that's got nothing to do with temperature. "I can't _do_ \- this. With the kid. She's - we're just - I'm not - "

He struggles with the words for a second before abandoning them entirely.

"I think that's why we're here, buddy," you tell him. Stopped by Dr. D's to take the Girl off your hands, right? That's...what he wanted you to do, yeah? Get her outta the city. You done that. Now whatever happens to her next ain't your business. Right?

Who the hell's gonna wanna take in a kid that BL/ind wants back that bad? By now you'll bet the whole desert knows what you done, that you stole something important outta Bat City.

"I know," says Kobra, quietly. "But who else is gonna take her?"

Figured that out too, didn't he? Should've known better than to hope he wouldn't. He's sharper than most people give him credit for.

You don't got an answer to that one.

"I dunno."

"Yeah," says Kobra. The word's heavy. "We're gonna...Poison's not about to ditch her. They don't do that."

Kinda knew that already too. He knows them better than you do, but you figured it out. It's the same instinct that had Poison letting you and Jet ride with them. 'Cause you're strays. 'Cause you're Zone-rats who don't belong nowhere else. And Poison looks at people like that and draws them close. You dunno what the fuck's their rationale behind it. Maybe they don't even know they're doing it.

The Girl's no different than you or Jet, and you know it. 'Specially since you're the only killjoys who invited this heat onto yourselves. You let it happen, let that wave break over your heads, and now you're committed to it. Could drop the Girl in some other crew's lap today, and that wouldn't stop BLi from wanting to fucking eviscerate you for what you did to them. You insulted them. You spat on their goddamn doorstep. You made them look like something that weren't the invincible, unstoppable force they've always acted like they ought'a be. And anybody who tries taking her off your hands, they're gonna set themselves up for a world of hurt that they might not be prepared to deal with.

"We'll figure it out," you say, knocking a closed fist lightly against Kobra's elbow. Neither of you've talked at all about the night when his arms folded around you 'till you stopped sobbing into the front of his shirt like some damn kid. But the least you can do now is return the favor.

The air between you's quiet.

"C'mon." He jerks his chin at you. "We should probably make sure the little shit's still in one piece."

"I only stepped out for a second, you bitch. I come out here to get all sappy 'n shit, 'n this is how you thank me?"

"I trust you with her about as much as - _shit."_ Kobra peers into the backseat and immediately straightens up. "Shit. Shit shit shit - "

One glance confirms what's got him rattled

The Girl ain't inside the Trans Am anymore.

Goddamnit, this is why Poison shouldn't leave the two of you alone. You can't do shit _right,_ never could, and maybe Kobra would but if _you_ could tell he were in a bad way then Poison definitely should've been able to tell. They just not care? They just not give a fuck?

 _Focus,_ god.

"The fuck'd she go?" hisses Kobra.

"Can't've gone far." You back away from the Trans Am, start scanning the horizon. You're the wrong fucking killjoy for this job. Kobra should be the guy parsing things at a distance, or better yet, Jet. But neither of you are about to tell Poison and Jet that you managed to lose the Girl in something like thirty seconds. "C'mon, spread out. She's gotta be around here somewhere."

But _where?_ There's a bounty on all four of your heads and the Girl's wanted by BLi and they're gonna stop at nothing to get her back. And now she's _wandered off._ Anyone could grab her. Fuck. _Fuck._ Goddamnit.

_C'mon, c'mon, where the fuck is she -_

Your hearing's shit so you don't even fucking _hear_ her giggling 'till you crouch down to check under the car, and - goddamnit, there she is. She's wearing a grin bright as the goddamn sun, huddled there snickering.

"Yeah, yeah, real funny." Can't fight the smirk that tugs one corner of your mouth. You reach out to her. You’re the only other person you know small enough to fit under the Trans Am, if barely. "C'mere, y'little butthole. We gotta get y'outta here if - _fuck!"_

'Kay, you'll hand her this much - weren't expecting the little shit to _bite_ you. That ain't enough to pull you back. You been bitten before, usually by things with chompers way pointier than a kid's baby teeth. Don't stop you from wriggling further under the Trans Am after her. The Girl squeals as she starts to worm out from beneath it.

"Shit - _Kobra!"_ You need to get out from under here _quick_ before she's gone again. _Fuck, fuck, fuck -_ you bang your head on something and your eyes go teary. "Kobra, _get 'er!"_

Kobra shouts something back but it's muffled. Between your shit ears and you still being stuck under the Trans Am, you dunno what the fuck he's saying. There's the sounds of boots scuffling off into the dust so you gotta hope that he's right on the Girl's tail.

You roll out from under the car, disheveled and gagging on dust and scrubbing at the fresh lump on the back of your head, and glance up in time to get an eyeful of pink rollerskates and polka-dotted leggings.

Great. Fucking great. Should've figured. 

"Hm," says Show Pony, drier than bone. "So do I _want_ to know?"

"Uh, _do_ ya?" You bounce to your feet, shaking the layer of dust from your hair. "Whaddaya want, Pony?"

Dr. Death's never commented on whether or not he remembers you from way back - before you ran with Party Poison, before you was one of the _Fabulous Four._ Show Pony, though? Show Pony definitely remembers. They remember the shitty, dust-eaten rat they picked up off the ground and carried back to the station. They remember the ungrateful little bastard who threw up on the fucking floor and then stole a shitton of food and water when they ran off a couple days later. You can tell by the way they look at you that they remember.

But near as you can see, the Pony either don't fucking care or just acts it. Wouldn't fucking trust that, 'cept the Pony gives you about as much shit as they give everybody else and that's kinda refreshing if you're being honest. You've seen 'em around here and there whenever you've stopped by D's station, which were more and more often before the Girl entered your lives. This right here's now the longest conversation you've had with them one on one.

"I hear your job was a _rousing_ success." They cock their head to one side, jut out one hip as they shift their weight. "Congratulations."

"No _shit_ it was." And now everybody fucking knows it. Fantastic, yeah?

"Took you long enough to stop our way," says Pony.

"Oh, what, like we wanna hang onto th'little terror so bad?" Right on cue, the Girl giggles shrilly behind you, followed by Kobra cursing under his breath as he chases her. You continue, undeterred: "Had dracs on our asses the whole way, in case y'didn't notice."

"She seems to've taken to you." Show Pony's watching the Girl dodge the Kobra Kid's ineffectual attempts to catch her or, barring that, herd her back to car. She squeals, high-pitched, diving outta the way so that Kobra nearly stumbles into the Trans Am. Far as she's concerned, the whole thing' a silly little game.

Kobra clearly don't agree.

"Stand _still,"_ he snaps.

You could start helping him out, but...nah, you're in the middle of a conversation here. Way the hell more important than the game of tag the Girl's decided she's playing with Kobra.

"Yeah, well, she's probably happy to be outta the fuckin' Bat, what d'you _think?"_ You shrug. "Weren't we all."

Show Pony hums, don't answer that directly. Can't say whether or not they're from the city themself. They don't look it, but it's hard to tell. You dunno them as well as you do Jet, whose Zone heritage had been obvious in his actions more than anything else. Their appearance don't help any either; what you can see of Pony's skin is copper-toned, mottled irregularly with whitish scar tissue. It's a clear sign they been living in the Zones awhile, but further than that, you got no clue.

"D'll be relocating her to Gertie's," says Pony, tilting the conversation away from the subject of the city entirely. "Last I checked."

"Y'mean like the orphanage over in Four?" You stare at them.

"You know any _other_ Gertie who takes in strays?" says Pony, unperturbed.

"Can Gertie _handle_ this kinda heat?" Sure, it don't look like much heat _now_ but this is the first time in over two weeks that you've had more than a day to catch your breath and lick your wounds since you got the Girl _out_ of the Battery.

"We'll see," says Pony.

"I'm just sayin', they want her back. Want her back bad enough to go puttin' up bounties 'n shit."

"I've noticed," says Pony. _"Everybody's_ noticed."

"Yeah, so you wanna go droppin' her off at some orphanage and hope BL/ind don't total the place?"

"What's it you're suggesting instead? Raise her in a crew?"

"Hell no."

"'Cause you could be doing a better job of that."

"Yeah, 's why I said _hell no."_

"So what's your plan?"

"Why's it on us to have a plan? Thought D were the one with the plan."

"I just told you his."

"Well it's a shit plan." 

You stare at each other. The Girl chooses that moment to dart between the two of you, laughing. Kobra dives after her and eats shit instead.

"You're gettin' the runaround from a fuckin' three-year-old, Kobra," you tell him without looking at him.

Kobra spits out dirt and flips you off. The way he's pulling his punches, you know it's 'cause he's scared of hurting her.

Show Pony slides over to the Trans Am, more or less reclining against the hood for no apparent goddamn reason as they watch Kobra try to corral the Girl into the backseat. It ain't going so well for him.

"Better figure it out fast," the Pony says. The words sound lazy but you're willing to bet it's an act. They're pointing you in the direction you gotta go, so to speak. "Before D figures it out for you."

Problem is their implication's aimed at the wrong motherfucker. Like you're the guy to figure shit out. You ain't the leader here, and thank _fuck_ for that. Your only talent's in blowing stuff up.

But they ain't wrong. You don't say shit, nobody else will. You sigh and slouch for the station.

"Partyyy," you call as you enter. "'M sick of flyswattin' duty out there, and the kid's gettin' antsy." That don't clear much up, so you add, "both kids. Actually." Given that they're still to your knowledge chasing each other around. 

Poison glances at you, but only for a second. They're standing tense, their hands drawn into fists at their side as they face down Dr. Death Defying. 

"Uh," you continue, even if it's pretty goddamn apparent that this conversation ain't going so hot, and you're interrupting but when the hell's that ever stopped you, "we motorin' outta here or what?"

"Nononono, you little shit - " Kobra's hot on your heels. You feel the Girl brush past your legs a second too late as she darts into the station proper. "Fuck!"

Then the Girl stops dead, and she's staring at Dr. Death Defying and he's staring back.

Silence.

"Don't leave the _car_ out there," says Poison, cutting through the quiet.

"I didn't. Pony's watchin' it." Probably.

_"Pony?"_

"Is that..." Dr. Death's still staring at the Girl. He looks like he's staring at some kinda ghost, and that's enough for the developing argument to dwindle down into nothing.

Poison takes her hand.

_Poison's not about to ditch her. They don't do that._

"Yeah," says Poison. "Yeah. It is."

The decision's already been made. All you can do is watch it happen.

"You really did it, huh," says Dr. Death, who sounds kinda awed.

Poison sniffs. "Was there any fuckin' doubt?"

That you'd get her out? Sure, kinda. That you'd _live_ through doing it? Yeah, there was kind of a shitton of doubt there. Poison's fronting. You're pretty sure D can tell but if he can he don't say anything.

"Look," he says instead. "You got her out. You need to let this die down before you think of takin' in any more strays."

 _Strays._ What, like you? Like Jet? Maybe you're not equipped to handle a fucking kid, maybe none of you are, but the word still stings like a slap.

"Fuck off," you snap. Jet looks at you sharply. He's crammed himself into the furthest corner of the station like he's trying to get outta people's way. He does that. Tries to make himself small, which is a pretty doomed fucking endeavor seeing as he's six foot and change and easily the biggest guy in the room.

"I can't ask you to carry this, Party," says the Doc somberly.

"You ain't." Poison's stare's iced-over, flint and steel packed into a defiant sneer. "You ain't _asking."_

"You can't - this ain't like takin' in some pet." Exasperation starts to leak into D's tone as he continues. "This ain't something you can drop when it gets too hot."

"I dunno." Poison pitches the word up lazily. "Whaddaya think, little bit? You like it with us?"

They look at her as they say it. The first person in the room to acknowledge her, to ask her a question, to do anything but talk around her and treat her like she can't hear everybody talking about her.

"Yeah," chirps the Girl, brightly. Why wouldn't she like it with you all? She just got done playing the best and probably first game of tag in her life. She's sweat-stained and dirty and her hair's already starting to get more and more unruly, no longer bound by Battery City regulation. Her eyes sparkle. Her teeth're white against the freckled brown of her skin. Seeing all that shine from her makes everything drop outta your soul for a second.

Fuck. Fuck.

You know what that means.

You spent so much time running from that feeling every time it's gnarled up your insides. Ran from it every time something sunk its claws into your heart. You cut it away, excised it like a fucking tumor. Only now you're stuck in a room with three people you'd march to the Witch for and there's no fucking pretending that you ain't one of them. You're the Fabulous Four. These're your family. Only family you've ever had.

The Girl's smile digs into the center of you like a fingernail under a scab, and you think: _fuck it._

"Hell yeah, she does!" You yank up the sleeve of your shirt, revealing the round indentation where the Girl sunk her teeth into your forearm. It stands out, raised bumps of reddened flesh against the ink. "She bit me!"

Poison's looking at the rest of you, the closest they get to asking permission.

"She's one of us," says Jet, so soft you almost don't catch it.

"Shit," says Kobra, deadpan. "Might as well."

D stares at all of you.

"You can't raise a _kid,_ Party."

And if he wanted to persuade them otherwise, that's the last thing he should've said. Poison's spite is a glistening grin, shiny as a knifeblade and twice as sharp. 

And they say, "watch me."

**\--**

**teeth gnashing at my ribs, hard,  
deadly, cleansing**

**\--**

So you got this kid now. BL/ind don't slow down and the dracs don't stop hunting you. There's a scarecrow on the case, one of the best in the game. You start seeing his face in Murder mags, followed by mugshots and articles interviewing him about taking down the criminals who terrorized Bat City. They can spin that tale all sorts of ways. Just look at these gruesome snaps of the destruction these killjoys left in their wake. Look at how much pain and strife and damage they caused. It's 'cause of unruly hooligans like these that BLi is _necessary,_ don't you see?

Bullshit. It were a broadcast tower, not a residential section of the city. BL/ind's just mad that they probably had to overload their other towers with extra freqs to make up for the lost power.

No mention, of course, of the Girl. Not in any of those articles and puff pieces.

Pretty sure you recognize the scarecrow that BL/ind put on the case. 'Least, you remember that bald head of his. He ghosted a band of 'joys only yards away from where you was hidden, and you had to carry their masks to the Witch.

How long's it been since you spared a thought for any of them?

You paint your symbols on walls. All four of you've got 'em now. Red, yellow, green, and blue, slashed up in circles of color and shapes. People start to recognize them on sight. When you're too busy running for your goddamn lives, other killjoys graffiti them to the outside of buildings and BLi walls in your stead.

Feels like there's a power in that. In your shapes being emblazoned against walls. Makes you feel bigger than you are. Makes the four of you inescapable.

Look. Point's that now that you got this kid in tow, you gotta make more supply stops than you would usually. It's kinda real goddamn important that you all take care of her. Got no fucking clue how you're supposed to take care of a kid when you're kids yourselves, but this is your life now. Couldn't take care of so much as a dog. With your kinda luck you got your dad's genes running through you and you're more liable to fuck things up and make this kid cry than raise her right.

More supply stops means more chatter with Tommy Chow Mein. The first time you gotta make a stop by one of his places after Bat City, he clears his throat when you drop your purchases on the counter and you wait for him to lay into you. _Go on._ Tell you to get the fuck outta his store. Permanent ban. Like you ain't heard him say the same shit over and over again. For all he makes those threats, he can't keep you out for good. You both know it.

Chow Mein lifts something onto the counter. It's a radio - small, handheld, something woven wound 'round one of the handles.

"With your purchase," he says. His mouth twists as though he's just tasted something foul. "No charge."

You stare at him.

Now there's two goddamn words you never figured you'd hear outta Tommy Chow Mein.

"Sorry, must'a said that into my shit ear." That's a joke. Both your ears is shit ears. "Could'a sworn you just said _no charge."_

"That's right." It looks as though the words are physically paining him.

"Very fuckin' funny." Only it ain't funny at all. You look like you're laughing? "What's your play here, Tommy Gun?"

"It's been paid for." Tommy's expression's kinda on par with one you'd expect to see from a guy who's just had a massive steaming dump taken in front of him. "I was given very clear instructions that when I next saw you I was to pass this along."

"Never struck me as a charity case, Tommy Gun." You call him that expressly 'cause you can tell it annoys the piss outta him.

"I'm _not,"_ he snaps. "But I always pay my debts. NewsAGoGo cashed in a favor, and this is what she wanted with it. Now _take_ it."

It's 'cause you don't expect the name that it's like a punch to the gut, like a razor ripped across your throat. Arrests the tempo of your heart, slams the organ up against its blood-slick bone cage.

"What?" 

You're aware you're standing there like a dumbass, mouth partially open, gaping. What the fuck else're you supposed to say?

_GoGo?_

"She was very clear," Tommy says irritably. If he notices that the world's been yanked out from under your feet it don't fucking show. "Paid it forward herself. Said that you, and I _quote - "_ He clears his throat, a weirdly prim sound that'd be hilarious if you weren't currently reeling. _"'Should know better than to lug around something so stupid trackable and remotely hackable, freak.'_ So. She paid for it. Now _get it out of my sight."_

He shoves it at you. For a second there's nothing but the dull weighted scrape of plastic casing over wood.

You settle your grip around the handle. It's cool to the touch. How long's it been since she bought it off Tommy? And why leave it to _you?_

"Hurry it up," says Tommy, the words sour. "I have waiting customers."

What kinda debt's a guy like Tommy owe to a dead DJ? GoGo's gone. Dusted since that night you heard the BL/ind take over their station. Ghosted or worse. He didn't have to bring it up, didn't have to fucking bother. Had no reason to pay that debt and give a thing like a _radio_ over to a Monster he's never thought very high of. Never bothered to hide that fact, which were always fine, 'cause it were a mutual thing.

You wanna flash a grin, dig under his skin, needle him for it. Rub the salt into the fucking wound. But there's a coldness in the center of you when you pick the radio off the counter. It's lighter than you expect.

"Tommy Gun's got a conscience," you murmur, "don't he?"

"Don't push it," says Tommy sharply. He don't meet your eyes. "Just get it out of here."

Could be just you, but it seems kinda like Tommy relaxes a hair when you turn away and he don't have to look at the thing anymore. Like that were a weight around his neck. Got some of those yourself. A silver necklace. A black and yellow shirt. A patch on your shoulder.

There's a loop of woven material threaded around the radio handle. A bracelet of some kind. It don't have a lot to it. It's mostly black, with little spots of pink thread dotting it here and there.

You slip it 'round your wrist. It sits next to your stolen set of bad luck beads.

"Fuck you, GoGo," you whisper, like that'll ease the clench in your throat. 

No answer from the desert. No answer from the breeze, the sinking sun, the watercolor skyline.

No answer from the Witch, assuming She's listening.

You grind the words out anyway, 'cause they're the only closure you think you're liable to get.

 _"Fuck_ you."

**\--**

**there's a dissonance in entering  
this world as a lump of rotting bones**

**\--**

What the fuck're you doing, anyway, thinking the four of you can raise a kid? You in particular. What the fuck do you think you can do here, huh? Your only experience with parenting's the kind that left you bruised and fighting back anytime someone lays their hands on you. It's in your blood. You got your dad's eyes, got your dad's _everything else_ too, you'll bet. No better than he is. You was never gonna be any fucking better than he is. Was. Is he dead? Should be. If he's not he will be one day. Here's hoping he don't outlive you.

'Cause you know without question you're gonna burn out. Was there ever any goddamn doubt? You said it to Jet, said it plain, that you was gonna go out with a bang. Go out screaming, go out in a haze of detonation and laughter. 

For the best, too. You look like you got any idea how to raise a kid? Not gonna be any better than your dad was, that's for _damn_ sure. 

Be nice if the kid could get the memo on that at some point. She hangs onto you, pulls on your hair with both hands, laughs when you swear and tell her to quit it. She's no different than any of you. She's one of you. Fits right in.

 _Just a kid._ Be nice to tell her to stay the _fuck_ away from you but god you can't, you _can't_ stay the fuck away 'cause you're one of the freaks raising her.

You're trying. You're really goddamn trying here. You're trying to avoid her, 'cause you're pretty sure your bad luck, your rotted-through soul, it's more than capable of bleeding over onto her. Only you're packed tight into the car just about every damn day so there's no avoiding it, no avoiding her.

She makes faces at you from the backseat. Ignoring her stabs ice into your chest 'cause you can see her expression crumple and she withdraws, turns into that quiet, _sad_ little thing that she was when the four of you plucked her outta Bat City. _You feel good now, dumbass?_ You're gonna make her cry.

Goddamnit, goddamnit, you're trying _not_ to - 

_This is what you are. All you're ever gonna be. Stop acting like you're something you ain't._

"What's your problem?" says Poison, blunt, breaking your pattern of thought.

Wasn't aware they followed you. The Girl'd hunkered down by the evening fire, nestling between Kobra and Jet, and soon as she joined the group you fucked right off and headed over to the car. It don't need any fixing but you can't keep sticking around while she's there and pretending like shit's fine when it ain't. Pretending like you ain't gonna fuck this up, like you're not - like you're not some _fuck-up_ who's only capable of hurting people, same as your dad.

You snort.

"Blow me."

Should've known better than to figure that'd throw Poison off. Their eyebrows curve down slightly. The dim glow of the distant firelight lights up the tips of their hair. It's freshly dyed, practically glows neon.

"You gotta problem, you either tell me now or we're all ghosted 'cause you couldn't get over yourself in the middle of a clap," says Poison.

"'M not gonna _ditch_ her in a clap," you fire back, indignant. What, they really figure that? You been fighting to keep her safe, ain't you? Been picking off dracs and keeping her outta Bat City's clutches, same as all the rest of them, right?

Poison's expression clears. "So it is the Girl."

Fuck. Here you figured that'd've been obvious.

In the absence of anything else to fucking say to that, you snarl, "I said _blow me,_ Party."

"You were the first one to say she should run with us."

"I didn't fuckin' say that."

"Might as well have."

They read your enthusiasm as consent. Why wouldn't they have? What else was it? Fuck, you dunno. What the fuck were you going for, if not that?

_Some part of you want this, you sick fuck?_

"Look," says Poison, shifting to stand across from you. They ain't that much taller than you but they _feel_ it, 'specially when they pull rank like this. Lift their chin, look _down_ at you. Makes you feel like a goddamn ant. "She ain't going anywhere. So whatever this is, get th'fuck over it."

"Oh, just _get over it,_ huh? What, like you gonna get over Kobra gettin' fucked up by the Demon-Sharks?"

Poison flinches like you just hit them. You bare your teeth, grin in their face. They gonna go after you, you're gonna go after them right on the fuck back, you got that?

"And why's it the Sharks were _after_ us?" says Poison, the words icy.

Knew it. Knew it. Always knew it. _Always knew this were temporary, and now they're coming at you again -_

"You want me to _leave,_ just _say so,_ Party."

"That ain't what I'm saying. Goddamnit, Ghoul, will y'listen to me?"

"Maybe try sayin' somethin' worth _hearing."_

Poison's hand flexes at their side, drawing into a fist and out again while a muscle in their jaw twitches. You know that gesture. Seen it pointed at you often enough. They're trying to work out whether or not they should hit you. 

"Y'think I don't see it?" says Poison, low and taut. "Y'think I don't see it in Kobra too? You're scared of hurtin' her, and I'm tellin' you not to be. We're on her side. We're keepin' her safe."

"That ain't it." That ain't _all_ it. It's locked up behind a nest of barbed wire in your throat. You dunno how the fuck to say it, _if_ you're gonna say it. Why _should_ you say it? Ain't like Poison's asking. They got no right to know. They can't know how it feels _unless they do unless they all do_ to have your own eyes narrowed at you, someone else's hands around your throat, grinding your back into the fucking wall. They know the taste of blood and concrete?

They grew up in the city. Maybe they do.

"Then _what."_

"'Cause I'm just like h - "

_Shut up._

Poison stares at you.

"'Cause," you start again, breathing hard, "I'm gonna end up fuckin' things up. 'S already happenin'."

Their expression closes up a second. Then their fist slackens and they uncurl their fingers, lift a hand to hesitantly drop it on your shoulder. You know they can feel the quiver to the stringy muscle in your bicep. Feels like they should be able to hear the pound of your heart in your throat.

"We're all gonna fuck up," says Poison quietly. "Bottom fuckin' line here, Ghoul. None of us've done this before. We're gonna fuck up. Pretty sure that's just what happens when y'raise a kid."

"That what we're doin'?" Fuck, you're really _raising_ her.

 _When you raise a kid._ 'Cause that's what's Poison's been doing, huh? Been raising a _Kid,_ anyway, even if now they and Kobra watch each other's backs. But they're the motherfucker in _charge,_ and you're willing to bet they always have been. They was probably looking out for him from the start. This ain't the first time they done this. Not really.

No wonder it were so easy for them to pick up strays. It's like it's their instinct.

Maybe always has been.

"Never gonna know if we don't fuckin' try, right?" Their smile's uneven, a mirror of your own. Looks better on them. Most things look better on people that ain't you. "But that's the thing, Ghoul. Y'gotta _try."_

You breathe, slow and shaky.

_Never gonna know if we don't fuckin' try._

Guess that's true. You fuck this up, you'll never fucking forgive yourself.

You'll never end up like him.

"Yeah," you breathe out, shuddery. "Yeah. 'Kay."

Poison laughs. The sound alone is enough to ease a little warmth into the core of you, like a finger of sunlight in your blood. Their hand goes to the back of your head, pulling you forward with your forehead pressed against their collarbone as they rub at your hair. The tension goes outta their fame and yours in an unsteady cascade. You shove away from them lightly and they grin, nudging the hard angle of their elbow into your ribs.

"C'mon," says Poison. "Let's show our Girl how t'light shit on fire."

So you do.

**\--**

**moss growing from my limbs  
having to be destroyed**

**\--**

You start by giving her the radio GoGo left you and you tell her to take good care of it for you, all right? She hugs it tight to herself with an expression of the utmost reverence. Little portable radio like that, it's perfect for her. Perfect size and everything. It ain't much. It's the closest to an apology for your past behavior that you can get. Poison watches you do it.

The Girl's good for her word. She always keeps it running.

You ain't really any good at this. Still getting your bearings. You fuck up and she don't always get what you're saying. But you're doing your best to make this work and her tiny fingers wrap tight around your hands sometimes and you know there ain't any coming back from it, from the feeling like a knot's being loosened in your chest.

The first time she catches a bug you tell her about how you know which of the crawling things on the ground're safest to eat, and how to toast 'em over a fire so they crunch just right. She loves it, loves snapping the legs between her teeth, loves the taste of them. Whenever you can break up your diet of canned food and protein bars, she likes to help out - catch insects, spiders, help you roast the suckers. Growing kid's gotta have nutrition in her diet, and if that means cooking up desert bugs and beetles, that's what you're gonna do.

She yells out the car window when Poison drives full tilt. She's got two volumes: either so quiet you dunno she's there, or the loudest thing in the room, with no fucking in between.

Every one of you's teaching her what she needs to know, bit by bit. Jet tells her about the Witch and how to leave letters in a mailbox, how to script them herself. Poison teaches her how to live day to day, where to find water and shade. Kobra shows her how to work his Vend-A-Hack. 

You?

You show her how to blow shit up. When you're mixing up detonations, the Girl joins you to see what liquids go into which to make the biggest boom. She likes seeing all the pieces come together, gets excited when you snap all the little parts into the whole. First time she sees you blow up a drac, it don't even seem to bother her that you just reduced the thing to a red-and-white paste spattered on the desert sand. She whoops happily and sticks her hands into the air. You don't set out to show her how all the aspects of a bomb come together, how to scavenge parts from car wrecks and junker pits, but you can tell she's figuring it out anyway. She tails you and she picks up every little thing you see and say, even if she really fucking shouldn't.

Like how when you slice open the meat of your thigh on the serrated edge of a chunk of scrap metal and start swearing in every goddamn language you can think of. You was in a junk pit, straining to retrieve a couple limeade canisters, only to slip down the incline and leave a bleeding gash on your leg in the process. Poison stabilizes you quick and Jet's even quicker to start sewing you up.

He takes the opportunity to instruct the Girl on how you're supposed to clean and stitch an injury like this one. You kinda don't pick up most of what Jet tells her on account of lapsing in and out. Kinda lose track of whatever the fuck you're saying in the interim but that don't keep the Girl from watching, her brow knit as she takes it all in.

Your hands're bloody by the time you can stand, but you ruffle her hair and tell her she did good. She don't mind if you get clotted red in her curls. They're already growing out in wild curls in a way you know that Bat City'd hate. Good. Fuck 'em.

You makes faces back at her from the passenger seat now, see how long you can keep your tongue stuck out at her before one of you cracks. She grabs you 'round the legs to keep you from spilling outta the window and onto the road when you gotta fire on the dracs at your rearview. She catches your gun once when you drop it, loads it up with a fresh bat-pack, and passes it over to you again without missing a beat.

Kinda scary how well she takes to it. It's like she ran to this life the way you did. She throws everything she is into everything she does. Never does shit by a half-measure. She's a neon streak, she's a cherry bomb, she's lightning in a goddamn bottle. She sticks her head out the window and screams along to the sounds streaming from the radio. She's barely gotta learn any of it. It's wired into her blood, seeded into her bones, stitched into her soul.

She might be the first-ever born killjoy. 

Blood and bodies and rayguns don't scare her, 'cause she knows the four of you are gonna be with her to keep her safe. Whitejackets never touch her. Not when one of you's around.

She learns how to loot a dead body. How to sleep in a bodybag. She's kinda small to wanna know how to shoot a bazooka, but fuck it, you teach her that too. It's better than her trying to figure it out herself and blowing herself up the way you nearly did.

It's tougher to keep supplies coming in a steady stream. Supply raids get fewer and farther between. There's nights when some of you gotta go hungry so the Girl gets a decent meal in her, 'cause Poison had to reroute several times to dodge the drac patrols thickening in the area and there wasn't time to find more food. More and more you gotta make do by scavenging and scrounging or bartering with Tommy Chow Mein. He might still hate your guts but he's got the decency to treat you with a cold neutrality ever since he handed you that radio. Jet buys a big, chunky toy robot off him and gives it to the Girl with no fucking fanfare whatsoever, but seeing the Girl's face light up when she gets her hands on the thing, you can kinda see why he did it.

Kobra asks him why the hell he'd bother, and he only shrugs and says, "because I said so."

Yeah. He _would_ say that, the big motherfucker.

One night you're cleaning your gun and the Girl plunks herself right down next to you, legs stuck straight out, and sets the radio down all gentle beside her. You can always tell when she's coming 'cause she's always got the thing on and piping out music in a steady stream of static-growls and cymbal crashes. She settles against you with a sigh, leaning up on your side like it's as natural as anything.

You only go tense a moment. She's so fucking small and fragile and her eyes're half-shut but she ain't going anywhere and you're not about to make her _move_ , so fuck it, fine, you're gonna sit here for as long as you goddamn need to. She's clambered all over you during a clap, grabbed hold of you, taken your hand, gotten up in your space in the middle of a firefight enough for you to no longer be wired to deck someone in the face just for brushing up against you. The ease of it, the way she does it without hesitating or blinking, it gathers up and pools like motor oil in the sun-drenched parts of you.

Then she surprises you a second time. She digs around in the pocket of her vest - it's this multicolored thing, blue and yellow and red, all your colors mixed up together, that Poison bought off Tommy 'cause none of you had clothes that'd fit her otherwise - and holds something up to you.

It's a bracelet, clumsily woven together.

"'S for you," she says, helpfully.

"Oh, uh, what?" You're going for _awed_ but you're pretty sure you just sound confused. Which you are. _What the fuck?_

"'S 'cause we're friends," says the Girl. "Everybody gets one." She holds up her own wrist, which's already got a little, multicolored weave looped 'round it.

Oh. So she...

Uh.

No way to explain the lump that makes it impossible to goddamn speak. No reason that this should clog you up the way it has but something about it makes everything in your chest kinda stop for a second.

You do the only thing you can think of to do and that's wrap one arm around her shoulders and hug her tight to your side for a minute, 'cause it's something that was never really done to you and you know what? You think you get a little of what Poison was talking about before. You might not know what the fuck you're supposed to do here but you know what _not_ to do. Got a fucking encyclopedic knowledge of that.

No matter how many times it happens, anytime someone _gives_ something to you, it takes you at an angle. Tilts your whole world on its axis. You don't never know how to _answer._

"Thanks, pintsize," you mumble. You dunno what the fuck else you're supposed to say. She don't seem to need much more than that.

Your grin's a little crooked, a little uncertain, but the Girl's shines brighter than the fucking sun.

**\--**

**to be made right, having to do it  
all over again, hands bloody**

**\--**

It ain't so weird after that. The Girl, she'll plop herself down in your lap when you're sitting cross-legged touching up some of your ink and at some point that becomes your life: you and the rest of your crew scrambling all over each other without giving a shit and without fear of getting a bruised lip in retribution. The Girl playing with your hair 'cause it's long and tangled and she likes picking the knots outta it. Kobra ruffling the top of your head 'cause it whips your hair into a staticky, greasy mess and you telling him to get fucked with a boot to the shins at a pressure that lets him know you don't mind it as much as you say you do.

When the fuck'd that happen? When the fuck'd you get okay with people climbing all over you, and when'd you start draping yourself all over them?

Probably around the time you picked up a little kid who didn't grow up with anybody who'd just give her a goddamn hug every once in a while.

"Screamin' relieves stress," you tell the Girl once, sagely. She believes you.

Everyone else in the Trans Am tells her not to listen to a goddamn word you say after you and her get in a screaming match that lasts an hour straight.

Figured she'd be harder to talk to, hard to handle, being a kid as young as she is. But she ain't.

She's one of you. She's exactly like one of you.

Thinking it makes a fist around your heart, pumps acid through your veins.

Dr. Death's keeping an eye out for you. Show Pony gets sent your way with supplies, with a transmitter so you can ping D for help whenever you need it and so he can clue you in on draculoid movements in the desert. It's damn handy too, 'cause you've long since ditched your glitched-up PTTP. The closest thing to a home base you got is D's station, which is where you end up more and more. You're lucky that BL/ind dunno where it is but you can't assume that they won't always, 'specially with the four of you - the _five_ of you - visiting it as often as you do. You gotta keep your distance.

Bit tough to do when you got nothing else to serve as a home base. And neither, apparently, does the wavehead you find sleeping on D's couch the next few times you all stop by. Dr. D calls him "Agent Cherri Cola" and says he's a friend.

Agent.

If you didn't know better, you'd say it's just a coincidence. But you know better than to say a thing like that, don't you? Oh, you _fucking_ know better.

Too many coincidences for it not to be what it is. What it has to be.

Far as wavies go, Cherri's pretty nondescript. The faded, scattered scarring of the burns powdering the exposed skin of his neck and forearms look kinda fainter than you'd expect for a guy who's clearly still shrugging off the shakes. That's neither here nor there. His hair's a boring-ass light brown, un-dyed. Cut short in the back, little bit longer in the front. Black vest, pink shirt. Paler than most people out here, but in a peaky, washed-out way that ain't real natural, like he ain't getting a lotta sun these days. Don't help that the skin of his face is stretched out over the sharp slopes of his cheekbones. Hard to say, but the shape of his face is suggestive to others you've seen, you think. Large nose. Slightly rounded jawline. Dark eyes.

Takes you a bit before you can get him alone. With how often Poison stops by D's station now, it ain't as hard as you was expecting.

Cherri don't seem to like you getting all close. Don't seem to like anybody getting close. He's sat on the couch inside D's station, curled up like he's trying to make himself small as possible. You recognize that reflex 'cause Jet's the same way, but it's just as pointless here. Fucker stands out, and you've got a laser focus on him like nothing else. You sit, wriggle on close so you're right up against him. He shifts on the spot, looks away.

You grin.

Cherri don't break the ice first. Seems intent on ignoring you, or pretending this ain't happening. Guess it comes down to you.

"You knew her." You say it without any preamble whatsoever. Cherri flinches.

"Sorry?"

He looks to you, startled. You grin. You grin _wider._ You learn forward, nice and deliberate.

"NewsAGoGo," you say quiet, grinding the word out low and purposeful. Cherri flinches. Like you needed the goddamn confirmation of it, but it were obvious. Had to be that he knew her. _Cherri Cola_ , an ex-wavie...what the hell else'd he be? Can't remember if you ever heard GoGo saying his name in broadcasts, calling out to him all specific. Had a bitch of a time keeping track of all the names. You _do_ remember one phrase standing out like nothing else, remember it uttered aloud by a DJ you didn't know, all during one of your shittiest nights in recent memory:

_"Fist first, MOTHERFUCKER! This one goes out to you, Cola!"_

Agent Cherri Cola.

He was one of hers.

You're goddamned sure of it.

"...yeah." Cherri shifts in his seat. Can't seem to meet your eyes. That's just too fucking bad, ain't it? "Yeah. I knew her."

"You was one of her agents."

"Yeah." A faint frown beads his forehead but he don't deny it. "I dunno if I'm...I dunno who else is left."

Like you give a shit about that. Like you give a shit about any of those slingas. For all you know, this one here's the only one left.

Lucky him.

"You did a run to the city once it happened." Your smile's a fucking rope around your neck, drawing tighter and tighter. Can't switch it off, never could. Suits you just fine here. Don't hurt to be all kinds of _unsettling_ just now. "You rushed 'em after they got her station."

You remember.

You heard.

"Yeah," says Cherri. He rubs at his arm with one hand, grimacing. "You...uh, knew her?"

"Nah," you fire back, smirking. "I'm just sayin' shit. Th'fuck you _think,_ smartass? Y'think I knew her?"

Cherri flinches again. Bastard's twitchy, ain't he?

"No. I mean - " The corners of his mouth tighten as he looks at you. "...what's it matter to you?"

So he _does_ got a fraction of a spine in there. Should've guessed. He don't behave a thing like any of the agents you knew back when you was GoGo's runner, but it's been a few years now. Lotta time's passed for you. And for him. Evidently.

You lean closer. Your grin's wide and it's putting him off. Puts everybody off. Not the Girl, for whatever reason. She thinks it's funny. She grins with you, laughs with you, screams right on back at you. Only person you've ever met who has. _You're bleeding your poison into her, that's why._ Shut up. Fuck off. That's not what this is.

Concentrate. Focus on the important things, motherfucker.

"Heard you goin' at the city. After it happened." That's the trouble with you. You don't got the same finesse as Party Poison. You show your hand too soon, all at once, but you know what? Maybe this fucker ought'a know that you know. If that'll get him to talk, it's goddamn worth it, ain't it?

Cherri crosses his arms across his chest, shoulders hunching.

"...a lot of people did," he mutters.

"Pretty sure that were a suicide mission."

"So was yours." He looks back at you. Meets your eyes for longer this time.

"We were eight legs strong. Th'fuck's your excuse?"

Just how the hell did he survive that? How _did_ he? Why's he showing up again now? Why's Dr. D protecting him, letting him crash out on his couch? Cherri know him? He know the Pony? He knew GoGo and GoGo knew Dr. D, but why the hell's he sticking his neck out for this washed-up slinga anyway?

Cherri shakes his head.

"It's complicated," he says softly.

"Son of a _bitch,"_ you snap, so loud that Cherri startles again. "Goddamn _'course_ it's complicated, I'm fuckin' tellin' you to _uncomplicate_ it, jackass!"

"What?" says Cherri faintly.

"Why the fuck were you chargin' on Bat City?"

"'Cause they got _GoGo,"_ he says, his shoulders hunching. "Why else? They got them, and I...I wasn't about to..."

"Don't mind the Ghoul, Cola." That's Show Pony, gliding through the room like you don't got your teeth to Cherri's throat, like you ain't inches from ripping the jugular outta him and watching him gush crimson onto the fucking floor. "They pick fights for fun."

"Up yours, Pony." You say it without looking at them, eyes still fixed on Cherri Cola.

"Buy me dinner first," Pony singsongs back without missing a beat.

Goddamn Show Pony. They're the only motherfucker who can take you in a verbal sparring session, who _consistently_ takes you and fucking loves doing it. Ordinarily you'd be fine with throwing down a little but Cherri Cola's got some questions that need fucking answering here.

You don't get the chance. Cherri flits outta the room the first chance he gets and as soon as you make to follow, the Pony blocks your way with an outthrust arm. A long line of scarring creeps up from the underside of their wrist to the crook of their elbow, pale against the copper-colored tint of their skin. Their helmet is still on, rendering their expression wholly unreadable. 

"Leave it."

"Fuck off." You say without any real fervor.

"I said _leave it."_

"Yeah, or what?"

"Leave him alone," says Pony. It's the most serious you've ever heard them say _anything._ That gets you to cock your head and smirk.

"And I said _or what?"_

"You don't know what he had to do to get here," says Show Pony. "You don't know _shit_ about that, Fun Ghoul. So when I tell you to leave it, you leave it."

The fact that they're selling this so hard just makes the temptation to buck that all the greater. You flip them off and duck under their arm.

After that, Cherri Cola makes a point of not being around when you're at D's. Or maybe Show Pony told Dr. D to make sure he weren't around and he took it to heart. Dunno. Don't care. 

You offer to fuck him up for Poison, 'cause they keep giving him the stink eye like nothing else. He bothers them. They don't wanna let it show but you know all the signs: the tight jaw, the tension in their shoulders.

"D said he had a hand in getting her out," says Poison instead of responding to your offer in any meaningful way. You lean up against them, head propped up against their shoulder.

He ran on the city. That should've killed him. Hell, maybe it _did_ and he's just walking around 'cause the Witch breathed him back to life or some shit. You dunno. Never met anybody Witch-touched to your knowledge. But if he ran on the city not expecting to get out...

Well, it don't mean anything, do it? City's a big place. A real damn big place.

"Huh," you tell Poison. "Funny. Don't remember seeing him there."

"We were pretty spectacular," says Poison. "Might not've noticed even if he was."

They're deflecting. You both know it. 

But you laugh a little, 'cause you ain't about to point out what you both know. You're rewarded by the faint smirk in Poison's tone when they keep going: "But not everyone's on the frontline."

If he was one of her agents, he would've been. That's the thing. He _would've_ been and he _was_ if he ran on the city with no backup plan.

So how the fuck were he _not_ on the frontline?

After the way you fucked things up with him the first time, you don't get any chances to ask. Don't get a lot of chances to stop by the station anyway. It's the one home base you really got, but you can't go leading the BL/ind straight to the most well-hidden station in Zone One, can you?

'Cause the rest of the time, BLi's hot on your asses. Korse carves a sickening line through the Zones on the hunt for you, brings back plenty of killjoy scalps for his higher-ups, the bitch. Hope he gets a fucking eviscerating every time he fails to bring one of you in. The bounties on your heads keep climbing.

"Bet I'll hit fifty-k c's before you do," you toss to Kobra in the middle of a refueling.

"Gonna lose," says Kobra.

Fuck you, he's right. He hits fifty thousand carbons for his body in one of the four acceptable levels of dead when you're still working your way up to forty-five. You flip him a carbon and he salutes you smartly. Asshole. Really is Party Poison's brother, ain't he?

That's how you gotta do it when BLi wants you that bad. You gotta make games out of it. You teach the Girl where to hide in a clap, how to signal for help. Hide and seek. Playing tag. She knows the difference between the two - between a firefight and a day spent chasing each other in the cooling sand 'till you let her sit on your back while you wail dramatically: _"aahhh, fuck, y'got me, killjoy down!"_ She knows when she can ride on Jet's shoulders for fun and when it's time for her to let one of you take her hand and tug her along 'till she's outta sight.

BL/ind ain't gonna quit. Not on any of you.

Funny how it took you this long to find someone that wouldn't give up on you.

Only that ain't right, is it?

Against all odds, you found four motherfuckers who stand with you shoulder to shoulder. Hands clasped to yours, bad luck beads rattling on wrists alongside woven bracelets with a little Girl's love twined into the braids. You fall asleep with Kobra half-slouched against you and with Jet's feet in your lap and the Girl trying to sing along to the songs on the radio and there's a dull glow in your chest that hurts a little, a dim ache that's kinda like the rawness of your skin after you just gotten fresh ink.

You got your city life and your desert days stitched in color into your skin, a roadmap of everywhere you've been and everything you've lived through. The places and parts of you that ain't darkened by a needle and splashed with color, they're wax-bubbled lumps of keloid tissue where ray-burns've painted a picture of the years you've spent making yourself the enemy. Everything about you, from the chips in your teeth to the slash taken outta your eyebrow, from the burn scars and the several-times broken nose, from the whorled tattoos to the complexion beneath them - it paints a nice little picture, don't it, about what the fuck kinda life you've had. For however long you've lived. Dunno how long that is anymore.

You might have the evidence of your history scored into your skin, but the names and the faces of everyone in your crew? You know without question that you got all four of them tattooed into your fucking soul.

Might be why there's an ache to thinking about it. 

It'll fade. 

Those kinds of aches always do.

**\--**

**from holding it all together  
until it can mend itself.**

**\--**

"Tell me why we're doin' this again?" You dig your pinky into your ear, like that'll make your hearing any less shit. You been driving for past several hours, heading to Zone Three. Kobra's in the passenger seat and the Girl's playing with her robot in the back. Jet and Poison've taken the night to head to some wavehead club in Six to do some kinda deal on Dr. D's behalf. Cherri Cola's driving them. Not that you trust _Agent Cherri Cola_ as far as you can throw him, which ain't very fucking far, but Poison and Jet're both there so they'll keep him in line. Probably.

You got other shit to do.

"Doing a favor," says Kobra. "And I wanna race."

"Thought this were a stunt show."

"Gotta go pretty fast for a stunt show," says Kobra.

Sure. Okay. Kobra don't like driving the Trans Am but he's happy to do a stunt show or two? All right. Fine. You ain't gonna fucking ask. The point's that Gravel Gertie's dealing with a whole mess of new arrivals over at her orphanage, bunch of kids Cherri carried outta Five, _allegedly,_ and she's low on the shit she needs to keep the place going. Dr. D asked if you wouldn't mind doing some kinda carbon-raising thriller event. Half of the Fabulous Four showing up for an event like this one, he said, were _sure_ to stir a big crowd. Kobra said "yes" before you could double-check over what the fuck he meant by that but Poison didn't seem too worried and if _Poison_ weren't worried then that meant you both got the go-ahead. Only rule was to bring the Girl along 'cause Poison and Jet didn't wanna take her to a wavehead bar, and who could fucking blame them for that?

Whatever. Girlie likes high-speed chases. Likes watching 'em, and likes participating in 'em even more. 

You ain't never met Gravel Gertie before, though you've heard the name often enough. She's got dark, puckered skin, a long plait of jet-black hair running down her back. Every part of her that ain't toughened with callouses is riddled with pale strips of scar tissue that stand out in jagged flares. Her wrists're heavy with bad luck beads that click against each other whenever she moves. Her smile darkens the crow's feet at the corners of her eyes. Someone lasting to that age in the Zones is always kinda shocking to see. You never expect it. She looks older than Dr. D, the oldest motherfucker you know out here, and he's, what? Thirties? Hard to say. The sun and war rubs decades outta everybody, ages everyone so it's kids fighting a war of attrition.

Something about the angle of Gertie's features and the composition of her bone structure feels familiar, like you seen and forgotten faces like hers sometime in the past. You look at her and you get this ache of recognition buried in your chest.

Don't make a whole lotta sense. Never met this earthshine in your life, you're pretty sure.

She thanks you both for showing. Her orphanage is situated in Four, but the Zone Three Crater's the only landmark big enough to house a stunt show, so that's where everyone's set up. There's a cheap and flimsy-looking makeshift broadcast tower mounted on one end, the place where the commentator's supposed to sit and drum up enthusiasm for the crowds. The massive, caldera-like depression in the ground makes for a decent arena. There's been derbies, races, all sorts of shows in the vicinity. The Dirty Water Dog Hut situated nearby makes a killing with betting rings. You been by the area before, but never for very long. 'Specially now with the BL/ind constantly at your backs.

That said, if BLi feels like crashing this party, they're gonna have a hell of a time rounding people up. The place is gonna be packed with Zone-rats, a lot of them driving heavy vehicles and even more of them armed. Big events like these're one of the few times that the Zones can really come together, though it feels like it's happening more than it did after you first hit the Zones. It's been years since the Great Fires, since the Analog Wars - new generations of dust angels're crawling out into the dirt with no memory of that crushing defeat. Might be that's why.

Could also have something to do with your faces mounted on posters and plastered up all over the Zones. People're cutting out your faces and painting symbols over them, memorializing them. You found Poison's face decorated with their pill symbol stuck up to one of the Witch's mailboxes the other day and you didn't know how the fuck anyone was supposed to react to that.

People definitely recognize you and the Girl and the Kobra Kid, 'specially when you're moving in a group. Eventually you split up and fewer people stop to stare but you still get a few hopefuls asking for your symbol, your colors, your handwriting.

It's an adjustment. Getting recognized on sight.

The prep work goes well into the evening, which is when folks start showing up properly. A couple roving food trucks park along the exterior of the Crater for any killjoys milling around, hungry before the show. You get the Girl some _pupusas_ off one of them, packed tight with squash and beans and molten cheese, with a couple c's you find in your pockets. Dunno if you can really afford to get her the treat, but you know what? Maybe that don't matter much. The pair of you got time to kill while Kobra's looking to participate in a couple stunt tricks with a spare cycle. No idea if he knows how to run a bike or _how_ he'd know, but Poison ain't here to tell him "no," so are you gonna be the guy to kill his motor? Fuck no. Kobra wants to break his neck trying at being a petrolhead, he can go right the fuck ahead.

You was kinda expecting to see Show Pony at some point, so you ain't shocked when they roll on up to you right the fuck outta nowhere.

"Heard you'd be putting on a show." Their wink's audible when they prop one elbow up on your shoulder and lean in. Don't mind it as much as you would if they hadn't telegraphed the hell outta the motion beforehand.

"Blow me, Pony."

"Now _Ghoul."_ They lean back, hand braced to their chest in mock dismay. "There are impressionable young ears present."

"Aw, what? Where?" You make a show of looking around, and - hey, there she is. "Oh, you talkin' about my Girl here? Hey, Girlie, if anybody asks you where your parents are, whaddaya say?"

"That I'm _your fucking kid,"_ the Girl says proudly. You crouch down, hold up a hand for a high-five. She slaps it.

 _"Atta_ girl!"

You straighten up, grin bright at Pony. They don't take the bait. Fuck 'em.

"So what're you doin' here, anyway?"

"D wanted eyes on the big show," says Pony.

"And on us?"

Show Pony tilts their head. Their helmet makes it impossible to tell if they've got an expression under there but they don't say shit.

"If you _did_ need someone to make sure your 'fucking kid' doesn't go anywhere," says Pony, pitching the words upward expectantly, "perhaps you ought to bear in mind who your friends are."

"Ooo, _friends."_ Your grin's catching. The Girl flashes it right on back at you when you sharpen the edge of it Pony's way. "You said it first, not me."

"Don't get cocky, smartass," says Pony. They manage to communicate the sentiment of rolling their eyes at you as they skate off.

The crowds start to thicken by the time the desert sky goes from creamy blue to fiery gold. The sun sets, lighting up the horizon in smeared streaks of simmering neon. The rickety-ass chain link fences keep the crowds outta the Crater proper, nominally, though the tighter the throng gets the more dangerous it is to be packed tight near the Crater's lip. You and the Girl get backstage access on account of you and Kobra being one of the acts later in the night. You let her sit on your lap as she wolfs down the rest of her food, watching the assortment of cyclists load up and check their rides. All sorts of colorful motorbikes and petrolheads down here. Kobra's one of them.

Didn't know Kobra knew shit about motorbikes. Maybe shouldn't be a shock that he does, considering how much he knows his way around cars and shit, but he knows how to fucking roll with a bike like nobody else you've seen. You and the Girl watch as Kobra guns the motor on the cycle he's using this run. It's black, save for the stars-and-stripes pattern painted down its front and the lightning-bolt spider slashed across it. It's got the number "27" pasted up on the side. No idea about the number, but the rest of it's obvious. Gotta wonder how long he had to prep the thing. If he decked it out special, just for this.

"Hey! Hey, Kobra!" You gotta cup your hands around your mouth to be heard over the sound of idling motors. He glances briefly your way. "Welcome to the flag gang, asshole!"

He flips you off. You cackle. The Girl scrambles outta your lap and bounces on the balls of her feet as Kobra tugs on a helmet with its matching red, white, and blue, then pulls out and into the Crater proper.

So Kobra can pull off some real fucking stunts - you'll give him that much. He and the other petrolheads coax shouts and gasps from the crowds with jumps off ramps, midair spins, the screech of tires and the stink of gasoline. The rats gathered around the sidelines whoop and holler. The air sizzles with cooking meat and exhaust fumes and anticipation.

The Girl shouts herself hoarse, cheering for the Kobra Kid. By the end you ain't clear on if anybody won, but you overhear a couple of burners trading c's and muttering over the show the Kid put on, so you take it that's a good thing. The motherfucker looks deadpan as ever by the time he dismounts in the load-out area, pulls off his helmet. He's got godawful helmet hair. It sticks downward, juts a flattened line over his forehead.

"Nice hair."

"Fuck you."

You hand him his old GOOD LUCK helmet and he takes it, tugs it on. Gotta look cool when you're doing sweet-ass jumps in Party Poison's prized Trans Am. Can't be looking like a motherfucker with shitty helmet hair or nothing.

"Y'ready, Kid?"

"The Girl?" says Kobra.

"Pony's watchin' her." You jerk your thumb over your shoulder. Sure enough, Pony's got the Girl on their shoulders, hands on her legs to keep her from tumbling off, giving her a damn good view of the show.

Kobra hums his acknowledgment and gets into the passenger seat. You yank on your monster mask, settle behind the wheel, bump his elbow with yours. 

"Ready?" Bet he can read your grin in the sound of your shitty, insufferable voice. 

Kobra throws you a thumbs up. You rev the motor and redline out into the Crater to the rush of wind and the buzz of the crowd. Runoff from the food trucks further darkens the darkening sky with a smoky haze. You can't hear the words being piped out through the shitty speakers mounted on the top of the broadcast tower, fuzzed up with static and blustering with reverb. The luneshine making the commentary goes by the name of _Terremoto,_ and that's the sum total of what you know about them. You catch the words _Trans Am_ and _Fabulous Four_ on the air, so you figure they're making a real big deal about the fact that the two of you've shown up.

You promptly swing the Trans Am in a wide arc, spitting up a long trail of dirt. Dimly, you register shouts and elated screams from the sidelines.

"All right, buddy." You take one hand off the wheel and hold it up to Kobra. His GOOD LUCK visor stares impassively back. "Let's give our Girl a show, yeah?"

He takes your hand for a second. Palm to palm, fingers tight enough for you to feel his pounding pulse. Adrenaline burning in his blood, even if he don't so much as twitch in his seat.

You slam your foot on the gas. The car jets out - three thousand and six hundred pounds of treated steel and painted aluminum, kicking up a thick plume of dust and exhaust. You and Kobra modded that vee-eight to hell and back, cranked its capacity up to something like three hundred hp, fast enough to break the limit of a hundred miles an hour. The needle jumps on the speed gauge in the space between one beat of your heart and the next and then you're gone. You're gone from zero to one-twenty. The Trans Am rockets forward, crosses the length of the crater in less than a minute. You rip the wheel to one side and the car fishtails around. Sprays reddish dirt into the fucking sky. Kobra breathes in sharp while you coast, ease the gas for a sec, then accelerate for the first ramp. The tires scream for the incline, and the velocity launches the pair of you into the air. For a second, you duck outta the front seat, thrust a tattooed hand into the sky, and you _laugh_ 'till the night chill burns in the back of your throat.

Feels like the minute stretches out: you and Kobra, suspended in the night sky like a couple stars. You sweep the crowd for the Girl's face, but everyone's a muted, multicolored blur. Too far out for your shit eyes to reach.

The tires hit the dirt. You whip back into your seat to accelerate outta the jump and the crowd erupts into a firestorm of noise.

You think this, more than anything, might've been why Kobra wanted to come. To live in the speed and thrill in a way that weren't when you was being chased by whitejackets, when you weren't running for your goddamn lives.

When the show's over, Gravel Gertie says you made her record numbers. She thanks you for lending your time and your gasoline, even if you chose to finish off the whole show with a jump that took you clear over the Dirty Water Dog Hut. Apparently you ended up utterly trashing the Zone One Men's Course with that little stunt, which raised kind of a stink down the line.

But Gertie pays you with a spare crate of _jarritos_ and the Girl won't quit talking about it the whole drive back to D's, so you're gonna call that a win.

**\--**

**when grief chokes you  
& yet you are still breathing.**

**\--**

That's one of the last times you get to take some time for something that ain't keeping one step ahead of BLi. They're goddamned relentless, and there's way more of them than there are of you. You and the Girl practice shooting them down from the Trans Am, blowing holes in the road behind you while you blast their bikes and cars with your bazooka. When the heat gets too heavy, Dr. D sets you up with hideouts to lay low 'till the worst of it blows over. The five of you gotta spend something like six weeks in some defunct gas station diner hiding out 'till the crows go home.

It's hell.

The Girl climbs the walls. She's got speed and gasoline in her blood, same as the rest of you. Poison paces and aches to do something, anything with themself. Cut off from the Zones like this, ducking your heads so you're all off the grid, it runs counter to everything Party Poison is. Kobra messes with his power glove and shows the Girl how to work it. Jet keeps teaching her letters and characters in different languages, 'cause you all got nothing else to do.

You bite your nails to the quick. Card through whatever spare mags you can find. Not much value in rereads. All that shit's stored clean away in your brain.

Show Pony buzzes by with supplies when they can. Once it's the Contaminators, trading some of your spare gas - not like you need a whole mess of it when you're stuck in one place for weeks on end - for bottled water and a box of protein bricks.

Most often it's the Burn-Flingers. They make three separate stops on the behalf of the Fabulous Killjoys, mostly 'cause they've taken to picking up your slack when you're laying lolo. They're real thrill-killers, real _rubberburners,_ got a real flair for the dramatic. 

"How's the Zones?" says Poison. They been itching to do something with themself, so they're helping the Burn-Flingers stack boxes into the dust outside the building while you and Kobra check up on some of the internals of the Flingers' cycles. It ain't much in the way of a trade but it's the closest you can manage under the circumstances - exchanging food and supplies for some auto maintenance checks.

"Same as ever," grunts one of the Flingers, dark-haired and sullen-faced. That'd be Benzo Mori: prone to talking shit, kind of a dick, but a faster draw than anybody else in the crew. He kinda looks like he don't wanna be here right now. That can be something he's got in common with the rest of you.

"Still a whole lotta chatter about all of you," adds another, more charitably. Storm Brio's got hair dyed blue-gray, like he went and rubbed chalk dust into his scalp. Kinda makes him look like he's about fifty years older than he is, but either nobody's pointed that out or he don't give a shit.

"The fuck else is new?" says Poison, cocky motherfucker that they are. Benzo huffs. Storm laughs.

"Stealin' our spotlight," says Riptide, but there ain't any real venom in it. Same can't be said for the rest of the Flingers. The quietest of their lot's a burner called Sonic Doom, a luneshine who settles for helping very little and saying even less. Their expression sours considerably as soon as Riptide says it, and they stump away.

They ain't the only one glitched off over all this.

"You managed to piss of BLi better'n anybody," says another Burn-Flinger, Nitro Spice. You catch a whiff of envy off her stare. Kinda can't blame her for that. The Flingers've been trying for years to get BLi's attention the way you have, and the Fabulous Four, a bunch of younger, shittier upstarts, managed it overnight. But 'till they rush Bat City the way you have, they're never gonna come close to coaxing out the same level of spotlight. They can afford to be bolder with what they take and when. Damn shame that no matter what, they're never gonna steal anything as valuable to BLi as the Girl.

But you look at her, and how could you not've wanted to keep her safe? You were fucked the second you clapped eyes on her. She's bright-eyed and eager and brimming with a life that feels like it'll flood out across the sand, paint the desert in strokes of clear, bold sound.

She approaches you on the fifth week of the lengthy trial of keeping yourselves hid in a defunct diner, clutching something in her tiny fists.

"'Sup, kiddo?"

She don't got an answer at first. She holds out a couple bottles of something that shimmers a little in the cramped half-light. You squint and shuffle closer.

"Hey, look at that." You whistle between your teeth, impressed. "Th'fuck'd you get nail polish from, huh?"

"Show Pony gave 'em t'me." The Girl ducks her head guiltily. That's a leftover city instinct that you ain't managed to ease outta her yet. BL/ind didn't want her talking, see, or doing much of anything without their say-so, so they made sure she kept her mouth shut and didn't _act out_ any. So she gets that automatic wince in her, that fearful scrunch in her shoulders that says she's worried over what you might think of it.

There ain't no better way to dispel that than to grin at her toothily.

"Hell yeah," you say as you bob your head in a nod. "Y'wanna paint some shit?"

She already looks a little more eager, a little less contrite, when she nods back.

"'Cause you're good with colors," she says, pointing at your ink-laced arms. She's seen you touching up your tattoos enough to think you're pretty good at that, huh? Not quite the same as painting nails, but you ain't had the luxury to do that in a _long_ damn time. No time like now, huh? What the hell else're you gonna be doing, right?

"Fuck yeah, I am." You adjust your posture, sit so your legs is sticking straight out in front of you. "C'mere, babygirl. Lemme show you how it's done."

She ain't real good at it at first, but neither're you. You let her practice with your fingers to start with, and she accidentally dribbles a glob of shiny green down the tip of your middle finger. It rolls down to the knuckle and sits there like the world's prettiest blister. Her shoulders start to hunch up again 'till you wiggle your fingers and say it makes you look badass.

"Like I dipped my hands in a buncha toxic waste or some shit," you tell her, grinning.

The Girl laughs, swelling a bubble of brightness in your heart that don't ever burst.

You help her do her fingers but she does her own toes, paints the nails in a dazzling array of greens and blues and reds and yellows. The Fabulous Four's colors, you note privately, but you don't say shit about it. Dunno if she meant it, but who the fuck're you kidding? 'Course she meant it. She always means it.

When she's finished with her nails she daubs polish on the blank patch at the inside of your left arm, one of the only spots on your arms you ain't inked up yet, and fills it with color. You sit back and let her do it, pull the sleeves of your shirt up so she can get the fullest exposure to her canvas.

She stops and runs her fingertips over the blue and yellow stripes of the Phoenix Witch's sunbeam eye, brushing at the hues where they live in your skin. You pull your shirt up over your shoulder so she can trace the intricate twists and wires of the metal plating shaded in just above it.

"'S them," she says softly. She don't elaborate on that. Instead her hand drops down to the tattooed bad luck beads that you dug into the bony ridge of your left wrist. Your real pair hangs just over it, overlapped with her multicolored bracelet and the dark twine that GoGo left to you. You let her turn your hand over in hers as she studies it - the vibrant red _BOOM_ scrawled on the back, the spidery _S-H-I-T_ laid across the knuckles. It's astounding how much smaller her hands are compared to yours. All your life, you always been the smallest person you know, but the Girl's down-soft touch comes from these tiny-ass ticklers. No way in hell a Girl as strong as her should look so goddamn tiny. Like she were something they forgot to label "fragile."

"What d'these mean?" She's moved on to your right arm, staring at the dog in grayscale, and the monster claw that sinks down into the flesh of your forearm just beneath it.

"They're reminders." You say it before you can figure out what it is you mean by that. The Girl's expression is open and questioning at that one. Can't blame her.

You let your gaze drift. Slide sideways while the Girl studies the feathery tufts of fur that Pressure Point dug into your bicep, forever ago.

"Had this dog back in the Bat. Little guy. Picked 'm off the ground 'n hid him in my room for a bit."

Never told nobody that before. Never told nobody about the dog you kept hidden in your room 'till your old man wised up to why bits of PowerPup was going missing from the kitchen cupboards.

"What happened to him?" whispers the Girl. There's a somber slant to the words, the expectation that the story's end is a sad one. She's too young to be thinking that, but she knows how the world works. Way the hell too young to know how the fuck the world works.

You tap the silhouette of the dog curled over your bicep.

"He lives here now, _m'hija,"_ you tell her. "So I always carry 'm with me, yeah?"

She nods, like that makes any goddamn sense. Maybe to her it does.

You leave the uneven coats of polish on your nails for weeks at a time, even when they chip and flake away in scabs of sparkling green. When the paint at the bare gap at the underside of your left forearm starts to peel, you chart out a space for four circles in a line. On the last day of your quarantine in this derelict diner, you stick-and-poke four symbols into the flesh of your arm. Three for each of them, the symbols they've claimed as their own - Poison's pill and X, the Kid's open-jawed snake, Jet's five-pointed, lightning-struck star.

And one for her, a simple smiley face she once left on a wall with the rest of you. She don't have a visual tag of her own just yet, but she don't have a name either. There'll be time enough for that when she gets older. For now, you'll settle for the shape she herself chose. You wreathe it in jagged spikes of cartoon lightning.

It comes up to the base of your wrist, leaving barely an inch of skin between it and the ridge of the beads you tattooed to yourself. Hurts like a motherfucker to stick the barbs of lightning into the thin skin there, digging the point of a needle just over the spidery threads of the fat blue veins running down the length of your arm.

'Course it hurts, but she's worth it. She's more than worth it. She's worth every goddamn thing, every raygun blast, every day you go hungry or dizzy from thirst 'cause you only got enough food or water for one of you and it's always gonna go to her. So she's worth a few pinpricks of pain and the burn-and-tingle that reverberates in your nerves for days afterwards. She burrows in the crook of your arm in her sleep, clings to your lean wrist with an alarmingly strong grip, and cries quiet 'cause she misses a mom she never had.

Can't relate to that, you guess. Never had a mom. Never had a chance to miss what you didn't have. Maybe that's just you.

You can make sure she don't have to handle it alone the way you did. And maybe - maybe that's kinda what Poison meant, when they said that you gotta _try._

Trying leaves an ache in your heart and a hollow in your chest. _Trying_ means that sometimes your attempts to drag her thoughts away from her dracked mom or the long, long car chase that's been made of her _life_ , those'll fall flat. You can make faces at her and talk in funny voices and it won't do a thing to ease the weight on her little shoulders.

But sometimes trying means that you stick out your tongue and her sad, pensive, crumpled-up expression melts away and she laughs and that's worth every single fucking thing it's taken to keep her safe.

**\--**

**listen.  
this is the sound of survival.**

**\--**

It's been months since you been tapped into any station aside from Dr. D's. He gives you the news that you need to get, and he can do it direct thanks to that transmitter. So you're a little less privy to what the fuck's going on in the Zones. So fucking shoot you. Most of it gets back to the five of you anyway, at least when it's got a thing or two to do with you. You're on the run full-time now so you can only pass by old drinking joints, gas stations, live shows, places where you might've once stopped for a few hours or a day to shoot the shit. BL/ind don't let up, and you ain't bringing the party to a venue that can't handle the heat, all right? You ain't that stupid.

Weren't paying much attention to anything outside of the white latex tide. Can't much afford to. Got no time for Zone concerts and shit when the motor gets this hot.

So it's outside Tommy Chow Mein's that you see somebody you was pretty sure you'd never be seeing again.

You're burning your way through a coffin nail, breathing smoke into the sky, while Kobra and Jet and Poison do their shopping inside. You weren't feeling up to cramming your way into Tommy's packed shelves just now. The sun's sunk low against the Zone skyline, bleeding bright orange in a chemical scar up along the underside of the clouds. Paints the whole canvas brilliantly gold. Looks like the air's been set on fire, kinda. Only not really, 'cause you know what that looks like by now.

Your cigarette crumbles out. You drop it, stamp it into the sand under your boot.

Crunch of footsteps jumps your hand to the raygun at your side, torques you 'round 'till you're facing whoever's coming at an angle. Half-expecting it to be shod in white and waiting to jump you.

It's not.

"Geez, freak," says a voice you thought full well you'd never goddamn hear again. "You look like shit."

Her hair's longer. The dyed streaks've gone dim and faded at the roots. No goggles. Her clothes hang off her frame like she's managed to find weight on her to lose somewhere, and her eyes've got a little less of that constant, inescapable shine.

But she still smiles wide and crooked, your own shitty grin reflected back at you.

You don't realize you're crossing the space between you and NewsAGoGo 'till you're already partway into it, hurling yourself forward. Her eyes widen slightly and then your arms're slung around her before you can stop it, gripping the loose fabric at her shoulders as you hug her like you ain't sure she's real. 'Cause she _shouldn't be_. By all goddamn rights she _shouldn't be real._

But she don't twitch and fade beneath your fingertips. You hug her fierce as the Girl's hugged you and she don't disappear.

"Oh - shit." GoGo's hands come up jerkily to hug you back, but she clearly don't expect it. Possibly 'cause last she knew you, you was a skittish motherfuck who didn't much care for people laying their hands on you casually, let alone the kinda person to go for hugs for any reason. Things've changed. The Girl's changed things. "Uh, I didn't - you didn't know I was back, did you?"

"Fuck you," you mumble into the collar of her shirt. She laughs, a hitch and a catch like static in the back of her throat. You pull back and her eyes're bright again. Little too bright.

So're yours. So it all checks out. You rub the back of one grimy wrist over them, smear away the heat that threatens to spill out over your face.

"Thought you was _dusted,_ you _dick."_

"Thought I was too," says GoGo. The words're a little thick when they breath 'em out. You both do the courtesy of pretending that it ain't obvious. "But we woke up. Had to lay low for a bit. _You've_ been helping with that." GoGo prods you in the chest.

You bat their hand away, grin. It's easy. Easy to act like there ain't this trench that you dug between you.

"Oh, what? Jealous?"

"The Fabulous Killjoys busting down BLi's door and stealing away a little girl," says GoGo, teasing. "You ditch the DJ-ing gig for a spotlight? That what this was?"

"Like we needed any goddamn reason to ruin BLi's day." You preen, rake your hair outta your eyes. It's longer now. By now just about everybody in the crew's helped you dye it dark when the roots start to come in, even the Girl. She likes to work the dye into your scalp, but more than that she likes sticking her gooey black hands in people's faces once she's finished doing it.

"There wasn't any _easier_ way to do it?" says GoGo.

You let the warmth sit in your chest like a fistful of coals for a minute, the pair of you staring at each other and grinning like morons.

Poison's voice hums in the back of your head. _You gotta try._

Hurts like a motherfucker to try. But you've got the chance to now so - 

"Good t'see you." It ain't a _sorry,_ 'cause you're pretty sure that ain't gonna cover it at this point. It's the closest you can get to it.

GoGo seems to appreciate the gesture. Her smile's still a little too damned sad for it to feel like it's really her.

"You too."

"Your slingas still makin' their runs?"

GoGo's smile melts the rest of the way, slides off her face like an oil slick over a puddle.

"Not so much these days."

You frown, open your mouth to answer.

"Ahh!" That's the Girl, dashing outta Chow Mein's and screaming for no goddamn reason. Can tell by the timbre and pitch of the scream that it ain't a _help me_ scream or an _I'm upset and can't take it anymore_ scream. More of a _let's make noise just 'cause we can_ scream, which is a habit that everyone says is your fault. They ain't wrong for saying it, but they _are_ wrong for thinking you're ever gonna be ashamed of it. She's a hell of a little noisemaker when she wants to be.

"Ahh!" you scream right back, turning to face her when she grabs your hand. "What's up, _¿chiquita?"_

"Poison said t'ask if y'need more bomb shit," says the Girl, her eyes wide. She drops the dirty word like it's no filthier than anything else in the crew've said, which is kinda how it is as a rule. 

"Tell 'em sure, if they got the extra sugar." You're aware that GoGo's looking at you with this expression of fucking bafflement. The Girl finally seems to notice that someone else is around and looks to GoGo warily, head to one side. You're quick to add, "uh, Girlie, this is NewsAGoGo. Old friend."

"You must be the Girl I've heard so much about." GoGo crouches slow so she's eye level with the Girl. Her smile's faint, a wry twist to one side of her mouth. "Don't worry. I know not to blab to the airwaves about where the Fabulous Four're headed."

The Girl looks up at you. One of your hands goes to the back of her head, the riot of curls that stick up in every direction. It's a motion you know she finds stabilizing. Done it after a clap or after one of you've gotten burned by zap-blasts often enough.

"'S okay," you tell her. "GoGo's cool. Y'know I made a bunch'a my first bombs at their place?"

"Nearly blew your head off."

"Psh. As if."

You're grinning at each other like you was never separated, like you never drove home the spike that split the pair of you apart. The Girl's looking between the two of you warily. She's usually shy around new folk, around tumbleweeds she dunno, if only 'cause she knows that she can't trust that they won't try to sell her out first chance they get.

But it's GoGo. It's been years since you seen them, you're pretty sure, and - 

You dunno how much longer you're gonna last. Things keep heating up around all of you and you'll fight like hell to keep your little firecracker safe, all four of you, but you was certain you was gonna go out with a _boom_ and you're still real goddamn sure of it. Especially now.

Dunno if this'll be the last time you ever see NewsAGoGo. If each day'll be the last. And that ain't new so much, 'cause that's how it is when you run in the Zones. Every day's a fight. Every goddamn _day's_ an uphill climb.

It's just different when you got something to lose. When you got someone who, impossibly, might actually miss you after you're snuffed out. When it's someone who you dunno is gonna be able to take care of herself.

That's why, once the Girl heads back in to pass your answer along to Poison, you rest a hand on GoGo's shoulder a minute. The contact still seems to surprise her. Probably 'cause when they knew you, you wasn't all that keen on buddying up with anybody, and now...

Now, with three people you've taken ray-blasts for and a kid you'd do just about goddamn anything for, you ain't thought about bruises from fingers and a spine against a chain-link fence for months.

Maybe years. 

"Listen. If all of us go out - "

"I know," says GoGo. "She's...the whole desert's behind her. Girl's special. The DJs, we've got her back."

It's tough to hold her eyes. They're tired and duller than they used to be. GoGo reaches up, grabs your hand on her shoulder, squeezes it tight.

"We'll keep her safe for you, freak. No matter what it takes."

Your smile's wavery and wobbly. Hard to speak 'round the fist clenched in your throat.

"Thanks."

**\--**

**every breath is the will to live.  
i am choosing.**

**\--**

Even when you gotta live off the grid for a minute, you got some real staying power. That's the thing that really nags at you. The fact that no matter how far you go and what you do, everyone _knows_ you. Gravel Gertie pays her appreciation forward - has Show Pony send you and Kobra a shitton of road flares. Tommy don't grill all of you for carbons half as much as he used to, possibly 'cause he knows that you got a fifth, tiny, growing mouth to feed. Dr. D watches your backs, sends you supplies on the regular.

While the Zones always had a vague sorta solidarity, there's a buzzing in the dirt, in the air, in the heat, that nobody can fucking ignore. Everybody keeps to their own gangs, keeps to themselves, but walls're being broken down. People're stepping forward to help you, and to help each other. 

_Did you do that?_

You wanna say _fuck no,_ but it's hard to deny it when the proof stares you in the fucking face - when Rookie Riot and their crew of motorbabies save your asses on Resurrection Road.

 _"Shit,_ Riot." You comb your hand up through your hair while Jet cleans a burn on Poison's shoulder. Poison swears up a storm. Kobra checks on the Girl, instructed to hide beneath the seats of the Trans Am in the middle of the clap. "Saved our seatwarmers."

"Hell yeah, we did!" Riot's grin's missing a few teeth. They're louder and brighter than when you met them. Seems they're still the leader of this gang right here. "Wait 'till I tell everybody _this._ Dr. D's gonna want an interview!"

You laugh. Can't help it. It's a goddamn wonder this kid ain't been ground down by the Zones just yet.

"Don't go lookin' for glory, sunshine. Chances are it'll find you."

"Thanks." That's Poison. The word's gravelly and rough from pain. They got one hand clapped over the napkin on their shoulder.

"Don't worry about it," says Riot, still beaming. "Be an _honor_ to say we helped out the _Fabulous Killjoys!"_

You grin back.

Those're the words stuck in the cavity of your chest when you find the whole mess of them ghosted outside Mega-Moon's two weeks later. They ain't even stuffed in bodybags. They been smoked alive, their skin blistered red and cracked open, the reek of their insides steaming into the hundred-degree desert sky.

Korse's work.

He wanted to send you a message.

You wipe a little grime and dirt off of Riot's mask. It's a shiny thing, domino-style, with dashes up and below the eyes to mimic yours. X's through both eyes, lime green on off-white.

"Sorry, bud," you whisper. Dunno if they can hear you. If their soul's still sitting there, waiting for the Witch to collect. "Didn't mean to get you stuck in the crossfire."

You breathe a prayer to the Witch when you drop off their mask at one of Her mailboxes. It's the least you can do.

Rookie Riot's just the beginning. More and more killjoys're finding themselves ghosted at the end of Korse's zap. He's on a warpath. He's got an assignment and he don't care what kinda collateral he has to rack up to make it happen. 

You ain't scared of a scarecrow on principle, nah. 

What scares you is the body count he's willing to pile up just for the chance to get at even one of you. Feels like he'll ravage everyone he meets if it means he can sink his teeth into one of the Fabulous Four. BLi, they ain't just sucking everybody dry - they wanna make everyone who ain't them _hurt_ just for not living in their neat, gridded city streets. It's 'cause of shit like this that the DJs started speaking out against them. It's 'cause of shit like this that they was _right_ to.

And despite it all, the desert's still rallying in the dust behind you. You're the Fabulous Killjoys. You've made names for yourselves. Feels like you've flooded every Zone. _Everyone_ knows who you are.

Keep waiting for the words to start turning into tiny daggers. Waiting for someone to call out _Monster,_ someone to dig their nails into you over every bad thing you ever done. You wait for the Attractions to rematerialize, start giving you shit for being a goddamn liar. For any number of your many and _inescapable_ sins to come home to roost so everyone can burn you alive for them.

Instead, other people keep getting ghosted fighting your battles for you.

You got no proof that it's your fault that the five of you find the Burn-Flingers revving their motors in Zone One, but you can't shake that it's got something to do with the noise the Fab Four've been making in the dust. Maybe Bat City figured it should start proving a point with dracked bodies instead of burn-holes.

"They got Storm." Nitro stares dead ahead at the white blot of the city, her knuckles blanched on the handles of her bike. "Bastards masked him."

So that's what this is. Riptide's crew's gonna make a suicide run on the city outta, what? Obligation? Vengeance?

"You make this run, you're not coming back." Kobra says it quiet. Says what you're all thinking.

 _"You_ did," says Benzo, always keen to pick a fight.

"And BLi'll know you're coming, now," Kobra continues. "None of us can pull a stunt like that again."

Benzo takes that as an invitation to get off his bike and start moving for the Kid like he's aiming to bust his jaw.

"You think you can stop me, Kid?"

Jet intervenes before he can get much closer. One smooth step forward, arms crossed, and he stops Benzo dead in his tracks. That's all it takes when you're Jet Star, some six foot and change of solid glower and meat and muscle. It don't matter if he can't really swing a punch to save his life. It's enough to keep Benzo from advancing any further.

"Save your heat for the pigs, Benzo Mori." Riptide's quieter than usual. Everybody is. Nitro's gone silent. Next to her, Doom's sat on their bike, staring flatly out into the heat waves bending the horizon outta shape. The alignment of the group looks all wrong - four instead of five. Drops a hole in the center of you.

Only thing worse than getting kicked from a crew'd have to be _outlasting_ one.

"Don't try and stop us," Riptide says to Poison. 

Benzo glowers at Kobra, who stares dully back. You sidle on up next to the Kid and fold your arms while Jet cracks his knuckles. The three of you standing side by side sends a clear message. It says: _yeah, just fucking try it._

They don't. They highway out after Poison passes them all some battery packs that none of you can really spare. It's the closest thing to a goodbye that you're gonna get. Riptide weren't a friend exactly, but you and their crew've done each other all kinds of solids. So here's one more for the road.

They're gonna crash and burn.

They're gonna go out howling, like you always figured you was gonna. You don't hear it happen but you know it is. It's in the air: the sting of screams and the copper bite of blood in the breeze. Nobody's gonna fetch their masks for the Witch when they're dying in the heart of the Battery. They're dying the way that you'd assumed the four of you'd go out once you made that run on the Bat for the Girl. Only you didn't eat shit then. Now it's some other gang that got caught in your crossfire, that has to suffer the consequences of the acts of the Fabulous Killjoys.

Again.

How many masks're you dumping into mailboxes these days? Feels like there's miles to go and it don't get any easier.

 _This is your fault._ Be easier to walk the fuck away, put a blaster to your _head,_ make it all _stop_ and drown the sound _out_ but you fucking _can't_ jesus christ 'cause you got the Girl to look after now and she can't do this without all of you. And what about your brothers, huh? You gonna ghost yourself and leave them to pick up your mess?

Can't fucking wimp out now. Got too many promises to keep. 

So yeah, feels like miles. Miles and miles to go before you get any goddamn sleep.

**\--**

**there is no limit to the pain  
this body can take.**

**\--**

Cherri Cola acts like he dunno what getting dracked entails. Kobra mentions it to D when next you visit, and Cherri nearly flips his shit.

"Masked?" he says hoarsely.

"You know." Shouldn't that be fucking obvious by now? You yank an invisible mask over your head. "The draculoids. They put that mask on over your head, and - _fft."_ You dunno what kinda sound a soul makes when it disappears, or wherever it goes. What _happens_ to a soul when you put that mask over someone's face?

Whatever it is, there's no walking anybody back from that. How the hell would you?

"They didn't try and get him back?" says Cherri.

You all stop short to stare at the motherfucker.

How _long's_ this asshole been out here? Don't he know anything?

"You joking, zoneboy?" You say it and kinda wonder what the fuck that's supposed to mean, _zoneboy,_ but nobody's stopped you so you keep going. "Masked. You know. Once you're a drac, that's point of no return."

"It's not," says Cherri softly. Like he shouldn't fucking know better. "The point of no return. They're masks. They trap the soul. They don't tether it."

What the _fuck's_ that supposed to mean?

"Cola," says D quietly.

"You weren't there!" Cherri blurts it with an abrupt spike in fierceness that you don't think anybody were expecting. "You haven't seen how they are, up close. I have. I know how they think. They're still _in_ there."

"You know how they _think?"_ says Kobra. He's gone stock still. "The hell's that supposed to mean?"

"They're dracs," you interrupt. "Point is that they _don't_ think."

"Haven't you ever tried pulling the mask _off?"_ says Cherri, desperately. "They're still under there. Trapped."

Kobra stands up, his expression verging toward a glower. Takes a lot to take him to that point, so what the _hell,_ Cola? "And _I_ said: _the hell's that supposed to mean?"_

"They're people. They're still people," says Cherri. He rakes a hand through his hair 'till it sticks up, disheveled. With the frantic jitters rocking his hands, he looks kinda deranged. "Their souls don't get lost there until they _die_ like that. They're not gone. Not until they're dead."

What the fuck's he know, huh? He were an agent. He were one of GoGo's. Those motherfuckers, they murdered dracs in _droves._ You remember. You remember hearing the calls. They were slaughtering them by the dozens, ripping through their ranks like nothing else. They were like the Demon-Sharks in their hellish bent to tear into BLi's ranks, only they were way the fuck more efficient about it, 'cause they had GoGo to tell them where to hit and _when_.

And if he were anything like Pork Soda, he probably enjoyed it. Probably bathed in a soup of red, laughed as it splashed up to his chest, sinking himself knee-deep in draculoid entrails when he broke their necks and fried their brains. You can picture the switchblade grin on Cherri's face, even if he looks the furthest thing from _violent_ now. Looks like he'd fall apart if anybody so much as put a gun in his hand.

Where'd all this come from then, huh? Where was all this _fucking humanity_ back when he were murdering dracs for _fun?_ 'Cause he had to be. Had to, if he were one of GoGo's. And he was. All but admitted it to you special.

Anybody else listening to this crap?

"How do you know?" says Jet. Four words, and that's all it takes for everybody to fall silent and listen. That's one of the laws of the fucking Zones now. When Jet Star opens his mouth, everybody stops and fucking _listens._

He don't gotta say anything else. He just stands there with his arms crossed and waits for Cherri to answer.

Cherri's dead quiet. He scratches at his skin, picks at the rust-red scabs pocking the uneven expanse of his arms.

"I used to - after the Wars." His fingers loop up around his dogtags, 'till he cups them in his palm. The faint shine of sweat on his brow makes him look ashen, pale. "I hunted them. The city line. I was..."

"Cola," D interrupts. "Come on, sunshine. It don't matter anymore. Those crash queens went down swingin' last week. 'S what they wanted." He lifts an elbow, nudges Cherri gently in the side.

Cherri goes, makes a beeline back for the station. His motions're choppy and he walks uneven. Like he can barely hold himself up. Like he can barely keep it together.

"Don't go chasing down that boy's demons, all right?" Dr. D says sternly. "He'll say what he needs to when he's good 'n ready to. Not before."

You don't fight back the snort. Like hell. The bastard knows full well what he's done, and Dr. D ain't your fucking leader. Don't gotta listen to _shit_ about what he says.

Cherri's standing outside the station a couple hours later when you slip out. The sun's setting, spilling napalm on the horizon in streams of orange and gold. He has one hand pressed to his mouth. He shivers a little, goosebumps prickling the skin of his shoulders. He's got marks on his arms for some reason, swirls of color. Green and purple curlicues creeping up the burn-bumped expanse of his skin, like fake-ass tattoos.

The Girl were inside with him for a bit. That tells you all you gotta know about why he looks like he's been turned into somebody's coloring book.

Don't fucking matter any.

"You fuckin' liar."

Cherri twitches, whips around.

"What?"

"You killed more dracs'n any kinda zonerunner," you sneer, lip curled. "Had to, if you was runnin' with GoGo. You was one of their agents."

"That's..." Cherri's throat bobs in a swallow. "Yeah. I mean, that's how I..."

"You fuckin' _liar."_ You stalk right the fuck up to him 'till you're inches from his face. He's taller than you - most people _are_ \- but he cowers enough for you to lean into his space and feel like you tower over him. Trick you picked up from Poison. You move with enough confidence, you end up looking a hell of a lot taller than you are. "How th'fuck d'you know a thing like that, huh?"

"Because I used to _hunt_ them!" Cherri flashes back. "You _know that._ You know that - that was what we _did._ We were her agents, we were...we were _killers._ And then GoGo says we can kill for a _reason_ so we _do_ and - "

"Don't you dare fuckin' put this on her." You snarl it out, teeth bared. Cherri steps back, hands passing through his hair.

"I'm _not._ I'm just saying that there's...that's how _I know._ Because once you kill enough of them you start to learn that they're not just mindless _brutes._ There are people inside there. People who can't _get out."_

"And you killed 'em anyway?"

Cherri's throat convulses. He can't meet your eyes.

"...I thought I had to," he whispers. "I was wrong. I was...I was _really_ wrong."

No Dr. Death coming out to save him. No Show Pony skating by to rescue him. Nah. It's just you and him, two people that know a DJ by the name of NewsAGoGo.

"Changed your tune, did ya?" you sneer. "What changed your mind, huh?"

"They're all dead, you know," says Cherri quietly. The shift catches you, cocks your head to one side. "All of those agents of theirs. GoGo's slingers. You live that much life, they say BL/ind has to ghost you twice."

Pork Soda. MT. Cee. Probably a dozen or so others you never met or can't remember meeting. No love lost there. Can't remember many of them. Pork Soda's laugh. _We was just playing around, freak._ The feel of MT's fists. Cee beating the shit outta you for the simple crime of being in the same spot as them. _Or maybe you was just asking for it._

Agent Cherri Cola, who you probably knew in a sidelong, abstracted sense. Someone whose name you probably heard but never registered 'cause it never stuck 'cause he weren't important. Someone who probably killed for GoGo, _gutted_ pigs for GoGo, did all sorts of heinous fucking _shit_ for GoGo and now he's...what? Reformed? Eased up? Laden and sick with regret over the shit he pulled? Except this is the desert. Everyone carries their regrets like a second soul or they die trying to run from them, and that's just how the fuck it is.

"You did that run on the city," you hiss soft. "You went after them for GoGo. I heard it happenin'."

_Fist first, motherfucker._

And how'd he come back from that, huh?

Didn't sound like he meant to come back. He did a suicide run on the city before any of you was ever thinking about doing the same. Did it _solo?_ How the hell'd someone like him survive a goddamn thing like that?

Given the haunted look in his eyes, ain't so sure that he _did_ survive it. Not really.

"I didn't care," says Cherri. "I didn't care who I hurt. As long as I got back at them, I didn't...I knew it was wrong. And I did it anyway."

There's so much disgust in his tone that it prickles your arms with shivers.

It's enough to stop you a mite, make you tilt your head and listen.

"But you did it for GoGo."

"For GoGo," says Cherri. "Not sure she'd thank me for that, if I'm honest. I haven't..."

He don't finish the sentence. You can figure it out for him. Haven't chatted with GoGo since. Must know she's back by now but fair enough, right? What the hell do you say to someone you did a full suicide run over? What the fuck're you supposed to say after you fully intend to die for a person and you both end up pulling through?

"Yeah." You came out here to make this motherfucker cough up some fucking answers, but he's too goddamn quiet and too goddamn sad. Feels like bullying Jet Star right after you picked him up off the side of the road and you might be a sadistic son of a bitch but you ain't so fucked up as to make someone miserable over a thing like that, all right?

So, 'cause you owe NewsAGoGo, 'cause you both knew her, 'cause you got nothing else to say to any of that - you head back inside. 

And Cherri Cola stays out in the dark as the evening deepens into night.

**\--**

**i am filled to the brim with my past  
& the emptiness that comes with it.**

**\--**

"One for the airwaves, D," says Show Pony tersely. "We've got a dozen ghosted, 'bout fifty klicks out."

"Crows?" asks D.

"Korse," says Pony. "He's getting closer."

Overnight, Korse slaughtered about twelve Zone-rats and painted the desert a deep wine red, stuck the bodybags up like banners and scrawled your symbols on the remains. It's a taunt. It's a challenge. It's a threat. It's a hundred other things but the most important takeaway is the most obvious:

It's a fucking trap is what it is.

Poison tells everyone that you're packing up and hauling ass to Zone Six.

**\--**

**i will carry it & move forward.  
wretched damnation—**

**\--**

It ain't a question of running and hiding. It's more a question of making sure the Girl don't get grabbed while Korse gets all his rage and frustration outta his goddamn system. Much as you hate the idea of the Zones taking the fall for your crew being a pain in BLi's ass, you hate the idea of the Girl getting nabbed more. So you find a place to keep your head down when the situation demands it. It's the most you can do for her.

'Least, that were the plan. Zone Six is the safest bet, since it's the furthest out from the city. You was all heading out that way when the car started making some sounds that weren't really the best kinds of noises for a Trans Am to be making. Should've figured that an emergency stop to make sure everything's working out good would be a shit idea.

"Pigs!" says Jet.

Your blood runs icy.

"Ghoul!" calls Poison.

"She ain't ready yet!" You scrabble to snap the disparate pieces and parts in place, but there's no fucking speeding things up. The engines're heated, the tank's gotten thirsty, and you can't fucking rush that kinda recovery period. Fucking pitfalls of driving a _fucking Trans Am._ "We go now, she'll overheat on us. Leave us dead in the fuckin' water!"

Poison dons their mask, beckons the Girl close - "behind me, Girlie." 

No question about it. Like it or not, you're gonna have to make a fucking stand here. You slam the hood shut.

"Look alive, killjoys," says Poison. "Let's make some fucking noise."

It's a full entourage. More than a patrol - it's a raid. Jet drops into a crouch and starts sniping at the oncoming dracs from a distance. That don't stop them from roaring closer and closer.

Mask on. Gun up.

You and Poison open fire once the pigs get near enough. A draculoid buzzes too close to some brushwood and gets tackled off its motorbike when the Kobra Kid erupts outta hiding. He yokes one hand around its neck, power glove tight, and there's the sizzle of ozone and the _pop_ of snapping bone.

"Behind me!" Poison calls out to the Girl. _"Behind me!"_

Make some noise.

Sparks fly. No time for cover. No time for anything. You dart forward and unload hot plasma into a drac's neck, laugh while it goes down gagging. Another tries to grab you from the back but you pistol-whip it across the face, claw at the hair of its mask, and fry the underside of its chin. Probably kills it quick.

_Could take off the mask, could see if Cherri was right -_

Another drac slams at you from the side. It's grappling at you, trying to pin you down. It grabs your wrist when you fire off three shots. They sail outward uselessly, gold against the white-gray sky, before the drac _twists_ and the gun drops into the sand.

Why're they all coming at you in close quarters? This thing could burn the shit outta you with a point-black laser blast, but none of them're _doing_ that. 

_Trying to take you alive._

And here you figured you was supposed to be brought in at one of the four levels of dead. Someone's bucking orders, huh?

Gonna make it a hell of a lot harder for them to bring you in if you're gonna be kicking and screaming every step of the way. You snarl and jam a knee between the drac's legs. You keep _kicking_ it 'till it quits twitching and then you start hunting for your raygun. C'mon, c'mon, where the fuck _is it -_

Jet goes down silently. His raygun spins from his grip as a mess of dracs start to wail on him, boots in his ribs and crushing his fingertips. He scrambles forward for his zap. One of them seizes him by the back of the jacket, hauls him back.

You're on them like a yellow-green missile, a _supa stinga_ making their lives a goddamn hell. One near the ground, trying to haul Jet to his feet, _that_ motherfucker gets the toe of your boot into its throat. You get your hands around another's neck, squeeze the skinny stalk 'till it chokes.

Then they're on _you_ instead. That's what the fuck you were going for so you don't give a damn, you keep fighting even though there's way the hell too many of them and they all got their hands on you.

Jet throws you your gun. You catch it, ram it up against the nearest drac's ear, and turns that side of its head into a smoking crater. It drops and the zap-pack in your gun buzzes. _Dead._ Shit. You shell the spent clip and the last drac slams into you, bringing you down in a tangle of fists and legs. Jet slaps a fresh bat pack into the sand beside you, straight up, and you shuck it neatly into place and then _zzzt!_ That drac's good and ghosted.

You grab Jet's arm and he takes yours and you haul each other up. Kobra, Poison, the Girl - no clue where the fuck any of them went. The space of a look between the two of you's all it takes before you're splitting off in search of the rest.

Jet finds Poison first. Then Kobra's at your side and you and him are flooding down after him, closing on Party Poison as they position themself protectively in front of the Girl. The drac at their feet's already dust, steaming in the late afternoon of the Californian wasteland. The breeze is starting to ghost over the sand and whip at the scrub brush, tearing at your hair and the edges of your clothes. Already carrying the sting of a cold-ass desert night.

Poison has the Girl's hand in theirs. "Circle back. We gotta clear 'em before they find the car."

"Too late." You point in resignation at the quartet of shapes shambling closer, 'cause you should've figured. Should've fucking figured it'd be Korse and his lot.

He approaches slow. Poison don't open fire and neither does he. You can all read it for the challenge it is. He's flung the gauntlet and Poison's not gonna duck away from a dare like that one. Not Party fucking Poison. They shift their weight, dig their boots into the sand. Jet twitches forward, but they hold up a hand and stop him dead.

"Behind us," Kobra's telling the Girl urgently. "Anything happens, you run. Okay? You run."

You get in a line. She's at your backs, her radio in hand, and the four of you - you line up, one of you to each of the gang coming at you. Three dracs and a crow. Not terrible odds. Only that crow happens to be Korse, and this bastard's proven pretty fucking relentless when it comes to bagging any one of you.

He can try. He can ghost all of you if he wants. Whatever happens, he's not getting her. Don't fucking care what it takes - he's not laying a _goddamn finger_ on her.

She ain't even scared. The idea that you might lose against this enemy, it probably ain't crossed her mind. Why would it? You've fought away everything that's ever come close to her and even the things you couldn't kill, you knew how to fight. You smooth away nightmares with stupid jokes and clear nights when the stars peek through the smog cover. You rub at blisters with your callused hands and ease the ache of her loneliness with arms wrapped tight around her.

They're not getting her. BL/ind's never, ever fucking getting her back.

There's a tautness in your chest when Korse stops, a good five feet of empty space gapped between his group and yours. You're across from one of the dracs. It stares at you impassively.

You tug your mask up, stick a coffin nail between your lips and light it up like you ain't staring down the barrel of your own possible death. Please. You done that a thousand times over by now. Offhand, you hold the box of cigarettes out at the drac, as if offering it a nic-stick of its own.

It stares vacantly back.

First thing you ever killed was a drac. Sent it rolling down the stairs, snapped its neck by mistake. You still carry its gun. It's painted green and coated with stickers that've all but melted into the casing, but you've never forgotten where the fuck it came from.

You stand in a line, one to one. Four on four. No tricks, no hiding. That ain't usually Poison's style. These kinds of straight-on standoffs, they don't come natural. Hard to read them. Hard to read anybody - the dracs have their masks on, and so does everybody else in your crew. The Fabulous Killjoys, masked and helmeted, ready for the fucking firefight.

Korse's expressionlessness cracks, makes way for a thin twitch of a smile. His eyes're still empty as searchlights, like he's trying to smile on muscle memory and only vaguely knows how most people manage it. He raises his gun so it tips skyward.

Poison holds their raygun tight at their side, their knuckles bleached white.

Every inch of you's tight as a strung wire, waiting for the invisible signal.

When they draw, everything detonates all at once. You glimpse Korse _lunging_ for Kobra, directly across from him, who starts shooting immediately. Poison shouts.

A blast of color and sound and you're on your back. Feels like your shoulder's on fire - your bad one. Must've been hit. _Fuck._ You flip over, fire at the drac's feet. Can't cut it down. Everything's moving too fast and the pulse of pain clinging to the angle of your shoulder's not enough to keep you down but it's making it hard to get yourself back to your feet to do anything about the clap raging around you.

Hand around your throat. No - arm around your throat, gloved in white. Drac. You thrash, slam an elbow into the thing's gut. It gags and kicks out. Again these fucking things keep laying their _fucking_ hands on you, like they're trying to drag you back alive.

Someone screams.

Someone _keeps screaming._

_The fuck's -_

_"Jet!"_ You register that it's you crying out a second after it happens 'cause you hadn't realized it were Jet screaming 'cause Jet _never screams_ and it sounds wrong. It sounds like someone being flayed alive. It's a sound no human thing should be capable of making. It sounds like every bad dream you've ever had and you snap your head backwards, _smash_ it into the drac's fucking _face_ so it gasps and staggers backwards and you whip around and get your hands around its throat so you can choke it the fuck out. It snarls, wrestles you back, _shoves_ you away.

You stagger backwards and into an iron grip. A bare hand closes around your throat, encircling it completely.

"Positive identification." Korse's voice is silk-soft, like a razor blade dragged through sand. You know it's him. You've never heard him speak but you _know it's him_ 'cause the grip of his hand is a steel trap and you can't fucking _move._ The pads of his fingertips are sticky and warm with red as they pinch at your esophagus. You can barely breathe. "Hostile One-One-Four. Designation: Fun Ghoul."

Kick out. Lash out. Do _something._ You're straining to batter at his legs and torso, to squirm outta his grip, _anything._ The angle's too wrong. He holds you in place like you weigh nothing, and he's so much fucking _bigger_ than you are. His hand is slick with blood. Whose blood? God whose fucking blood is staining your throat right now?

"Alias - " says Korse, and he breathes a name you haven't heard in years - a name you haven't heard since you crossed that city line and never looked back.

_Gonna fucking burn him ALIVE -_

"Member of the terrorist group known as the Fabulous Killjoys." Korse's breath tickles the tip of one ear, gusts at the straggles of hair that fall unevenly into your face. He keeps talking like every muscle in your body ain't gone taut and vibrating. "Apprehend with caution. To be exterminated at all costs."

Who the fuck's he _talking_ to? Nobody? Himself?

Don't care, don't care, don't _fucking care_ where the fuck's _Jet what the fuck did he do with Jet?_

"Fuck... _off..."_ you growl out between gritted teeth. Where's your fucking _knife,_ god. Gotta reach it. It's in your boot. Just gotta angle your arm so you can get to it - 

"Favors use of high-lethality IEDs," whispers Korse. "Long-range extermination recommended."

You wrestle the blade outta your boot and jab it upwards at him, blindly.

He catches your wrist, does _something_ with it that twists you deftly around so you're facing him. His face looks bone-carved, white-blanched with an ashen pallor that don't make any damn sense considering he's been out in the desert as long as he has. His eyes glint dully. Everything about him's been filed into points except his face, which even when it's stretched into a flimsy parody of human emotion, looks like it don't quite fit over the shape of his skull.

You gotta wrench your hand outta his grip and he lets go of your throat so his hand can close around your bad shoulder. He squeezes hard, compressing the old injury and the new zap-rash alike. You don't mean to fucking scream but the shout erupts outta your throat regardless.

"Fuck! _Fuck, fuck, fuck LET GO - "_

"...but susceptible to close range attack," Korse continues, as if you ain't howling in his ear. "Particularly surrounding the left deltoid and pectoralis."

_Deltoid and pectoralis._

What, like - like he fucking knows what _shoulder_ got impaled in a car crash _years ago?_ How the _fuck does he know that._

You take another swipe at him. He catches your swing, his fingers digging ruthlessly into the meat of your shoulder and everything blanks white. When the world fuzzes back in, Korse has got your knife and you're bent back, gasping, eyes to the fucking sky. There's a cold line digging into the corner of your mouth. You get about half a second to register what it _is_ before Korse is opening a river of fire down the side of your face, the point of your own knife slitting through your flesh in a crooked, upwards arc, like - 

Like he's carving your own symbol into your skin.

Like the ink coating your hands and arms, like the tattoos you wore like badges, he's _cutting it into you_ and the violation is so immense that you wanna be fucking sick.

Red runs into your mouth when you thrash, scream. Every twitch digs the edge of the blade deeper. It slices into your gums, gushes scarlet down your chin and between your teeth 'till you gag on the heat and red.

Then you're on the ground staring skyward, your mouth dribbled with the salt and copper tang of your own blood. A bubble of it hisses faintly between the slit edges of your skin when you breathe out.

The color of the sky's changed. Gone grayish, dimming out. Feels like you blinked and everything shifted. The side of your mouth still gapes, leaking hot trickles down the side of your face. When'd you end up on your back?

How long've you been lying here?

Then someone's pressing something to the slash on your mouth. You twitch. 

"Easy," says Poison. The word shakes. So quiet you can barely hear it, but it's there.

Poison's alive.

They're still alive.

 _You're_ still alive.

Makes no goddamn sense.

"Whe - " You don't get much further than that. Hurts to talk. Hurts to _breathe._ Poison keeps pressing their bandanna down on the injury, shifting closer. It's soaking through the black-and-red checkered fabric, drenching it in crimson.

"Stay here," says Poison. You blink at them, reach up to keep the cloth mantled over the injury. They can still walk. You? You haven't tried. Probably could. You're still bleeding sluggish into the sand. The skin on the side of your face feels tight where the blood's started to dry.

You sit up slow. Shoulder's all fucked up. Whatever Korse did to it, it aches like a _motherfucker._ Not near as bad as your mouth. You pull the bandanna away from the cut, try and gauge how far along your face it's gone. It runs up the right side of your mouth, the corner of your lip to just under your cheekbone. It goes deep. All the way through in spots.

Shit. Maybe Jet'll be able to stitch - 

_Jet._

You heard him,. Know you heard him screaming his lungs out. The fuck happened to him? What about - 

"Hey." The word's wobbly, uncertain. A long, thin shadow falls across you.

Kobra. You'd like to answer him, really, you kinda would, but every time you open your mouth it feels like the skin's cracking open anew. You thought by now you knew every possible way there is to experience pain but you'll give Korse this much: this one's new. Having your mouth halfway slit open's a new fucking sensation and it's one you'd honestly rather've done without.

The remains of the Kid's power gauntlet hang limp from one hand. The other's cradled close to his chest. The skin's gone blackened at the tips of his fingers, seared red and scarred. He sinks down slowly, breathing hard.

"S...Jet?" You manage to work the words out even if it hurts like a motherfucker. "Th'Girl?"

Kobra shakes his head.

"Poison's looking for them."

They're not gonna find her. You both already know it. They came for the five of you and if they left any of you alive...why the fuck _would_ they've left any of you alive, actually? Why the fuck _would they?_

The Girl's gone. Kobra's hand is fucked. You've got a cut carved into your cheek. And Jet...

"Fuck, Jet," you breathe when you see him. He's got one hand cupped over the right side of his face, which looks even fucking worse than yours. Dark red streams out one socket, runs down his cheek and drips onto his jacket.

Makes sense now. Why he was screaming.

You'd've screamed too.

"They took her," says Jet, like he ain't missing an _eye._ Like that's the takeaway here, and it _is_ but it's like he don't care that he's leaking blood outta the crater carved into his eye socket.

"Fuck," says Kobra, like his hand ain't charred and blistered from whatever the _fuck_ Korse did to it.

'Cause that ain't the important thing.

Not when they have her.

They took her. Korse took her and then, just to twist the knife, he did _this_ \- could've ghosted you all, and didn't. Left you alive to bleed. Dug out Jet's eye, 'cause Jet, he's your long-range shooter. Crushed the Kid's glove with his fist still inside it, 'cause he's your close quarters fighter. Slit your face with a knife, 'cause your symbol were a blatant mockery of all things BLi.

And Poison?

Poison's easy.

He came at them and turned the whole thing into a challenge instead of a firefight, and then he left them to stew in their failure.

What the hell comes next, huh?

You know exactly what comes next. All of you do. There's no fucking question that BL/ind's expecting it and there's no fucking question that you're all gonna do it anyway, 'cause sitting and playing dumb ain't a fucking choice here. Not for the Girl. Not for your _Girl._

You're gonna get her back, even if it means storming the city a second time to do it.

**\--**

**i am only human  
but i will become.**

**\--**

_"None of us can pull a stunt like that again,"_ Kobra'd said to Riptide, and he were right. You know it when you're gearing up for the last ride you'll ever take.

How old are you now?

You think you might be eighteen. Nineteen, maybe. You dunno anymore. Lasted longer than you ever figured you would. That's gotta count for something.

Death tastes funny. It's a slick of rot in the back of your throat. It's sour, it's stale peppermint, like ash on the breeze, like bile, like blood. You breathe it in and it's like you can feel your own death staring back at you. It's like a part of your soul spun off during that clap and now it's watching it all happen.

Always figured you'd go out with a boom, didn't you? Didn't you say so? Didn't you tell Jet so?

Kobra's mopping away the blood caked around the dark pit that's all that's left of Jet's right eye, using an old shirt to sponge it away as best as he can. His muscles get shivery and he curses every now and again and Jet's gotta catch his wrist to ease the tremors and keep the Kid from spiraling out. Shaking and exhausted and minus an eye, and Jet's still the guy trying to keep everyone else standing.

The absence of the Girl bites harder than any knife could. Sears brighter than any laser blast.

You breathe in.

"Hold still," says Poison. They dig the edge of the needle through the lip of flesh at your mouth and you try not to hiss between your teeth. Ordinarily Jet'd be the guy to do this, or Kobra, but Jet's adjusting to the loss of an eye and Kobra's hands is shaking too hard for him to hold his gun steady let alone a needle so Poison's it. They're careful and precise as it's possible for them to be but their breath is shuddery and their grip on your shoulder's unsteady.

It ain't the worst thing in the world. Nah, you've experienced all kinds of new and exciting types of pain since ending up out here. This one's particular, but it's nothing special. Not like getting a chunk of your leg carved out by a hot knife.

You're at Dr. D's. It's the only place you got left to go. The drive'd sucked, Kobra taking everyone back one-handed and steering all surprisingly steady for a guy who you've only once seen behind the wheel. The longer you wait to hit back against BLi, the better prepared they'll be to ghost you, so you gotta do this now and you gotta do it loud. Ain't that the killjoy way.

The only possibility for taking them off guard you got left is in the speed of recovery. They know you're coming. There's no way you _wouldn't_ be. You can only hope that they won't expect you to come so quick.

Gonna detonate. Gonna fucking _explode._

Poison ties off the line of stitches they had to redo, since doing 'em in the backseat of a moving car weren't a real great idea.

 _"Bad news from the Zones, tumbleweeds,"_ says Dr. Death Defying. The words drift outta the station as he relays them - Jet Star and the Kobra Kid had an awful clap with an exterminator that got them ghosted on Route Guano. Damn shame. Better watch your backs out there, killjoys.

It's the only cover you've got. And it's the only chance that your inevitable deaths won't fully unmake the Zones. When'd a shithead like you get to be _important_ to the integrity of the Zones? When'd the Fabulous Four become such a linchpin for unity?

You head out, over to the Trans Am. Dr. Death keeps chattering away, fades out into the background noise of the wind picking up over the desert. The cooling air of the evening. It's only been a couple hours since it happened. The ache's still stuck in your skin.

You're probably gonna die with your mouth still bleeding.

Funny kinda thought to have.

You pick the transmitter outta the front seat. It's got the word _TALK_ scribbled on top of it, courtesy of the Girl. _The Girl, god -_ the thought alone's like you just got a shard of glass lodged into your sternum.

How far's the signal go out? It's a secure frequency, far as you know. Not that it matters much at this point. Show Pony gave the thing to you, and it's always worked well enough in ringing up Dr. D, so - you toggle the buttons. Key into the freq that you think is theirs, and...

"Hey."

Buzz. Static. They even there? Might not be listening. Might not be around. Might've already heard the news, if it even counts as news.

The line clicks softly.

 _"Hey."_ GoGo's voice is quiet when they answer. _"You okay?"_

You pop the trunk. Start digging through whatever supplies you got left. Battery packs, ammo, whatever spare detonations you still got on hand. Feels good to have something to do with yourself, with the nuclear energy burning up in your guts. Like your heart knows it's got a limit to how much longer it'll be beating, throws itself harder against your ribcage to compensate. Heat in your veins, straining to leak out into the sky.

 _Give it a few hours._ Just gotta be patient is all.

"Been better." Hurts to talk. Gotta speak outta the left side of your mouth. "Y'know they ain't really dead, right?"

 _Yet,_ you don't add.

_"Sorry?"_

"Kobra 'n Jet. We're just...we needed a sec to regroup, so, uh." You stop. Brace both hands against the edges of the trunk, drop your head. Your shoulder burns. Poison bandaged it as good as they could manage, but it still burns. "They took her, GoGo."

Silence.

 _"Oh, hell,"_ says GoGo. The words're almost inaudible. She knows who you mean. Only thing you _could_ mean.

"Yeah." There's a heaviness to the answer. "So, uh...we're goin' after her. Gettin' her back. Y'know."

As if there were any doubt.

Silence.

 _"Oh,"_ says GoGo.

You can tell by the tone that they know exactly what you mean by that too, and what that's gonna mean for you.

"So, uh, y'know when I asked you before - "

 _"Of course,"_ says GoGo at once. _"We'll have her back. No matter what, freak."_

You try to smile. It pulls the stitches on the side of your mouth. Makes your skin feel like it's splitting open all over again. A bead of blood slips down to your chin, warm and shivery. You thumb it away.

"Thanks." That eases something up, unclenches some knotted tension in the nerve-dense parts sat inside you. "Thanks, GoGo."

You dunno what the fuck else to say to that, so you sit at the edge of the trunk and let the cooling air wick over you. You flex your fingers so the aching muscle in your deltoid, shot and bled and burned and bound up in bandages, shoots fire down your arm. You watch the dark ink twitch on the underside of your arm when the tendons in your fingers pull in and out again.

_"You still there, freak?"_

You breathe out.

"Yeah. 'M still here."

What do you say to any of this? To NewsAGoGo - the first person in your damn _life_ to give a shit about you? What good's goodbyes, or apologies, or _anything_ besides the obvious? You can say goodbye and you can thank them for putting up with your _shit_ but it won't change a damn thing. It won't make any of what you done better. It won't - 

What happens to you after you're ghosted?

Does the Witch take all your debts, all your prayers, every rotten, horrid, shitty, wadded-up _thing_ you've ever done, and bundle them with you when you cross the threshold into Her world? You get to carry those forever?

Maybe that's what hell is. You, stuck with the things you done. Nowhere to hide from them and nothing to do but let them metastasize, let them baste you in your own carnage and filth, let them eat you alive and chew up your entrails 'till there's not a goddamn thing left.

 _"Hot Chimp's on her way,"_ says GoGo. You barely register the words, remember vaguely that the name corresponds to some other DJ in the Zones. _"She's got your back. Your Girl's gonna be just fine, freak."_

You trace the scabbed trench of the fresh slice scored into your skin, the line that stretches your perpetual, crooked-ass grin into something even uglier. You wonder if the Girl'd be scared if she saw it, but - probably not. Nothing you did ever scared her.

"GoGo?"

_"Yeah?"_

"'M gonna leave the line open a bit."

 _"...sure."_ There's an ache in the word that's so raw that it digs into the core of you. Like they know what you're doing. Maybe they do. Maybe they figured that you can't bring yourself to say a goddamn thing like _thank you_ or even the utter bare basics of _I'm so fucking sorry_ , 'cause the finality of it, more than anything else, will be what fucks with you and makes you slip up in a clap and this is the one thing that you really can't afford to fuck up any further.

You don't wanna be alone with your thoughts but you can't bear to drift closer to your brothers just now and sit there and marinate in the sight of what Korse did to each of them, the defeat in the lines of Poison's shoulders, the fear quivering in Jet's remaining eye, the aimless, twitching anger sparking off Kobra's every tiny movement.

So you leave the line open.

You let the white noise fill the gaps in the Zones between you and the first friend you ever had 'till it's time to gear up and go.

You don't tell her goodbye. Of all the shit you've pulled, of all the fuck-ups you've committed, that might be the worst - the cruelty to how you don't breathe a goddamn word when it happens. 

You click the line off, and that's the last thing you and NewsAGoGo say to each other.

**\--**

**isn't it funny?  
how the cold numbs everything but grief.**

**\--**

Poison gave Dr. D your masks. Your white and green one along with everyone else's dominos, the places where your souls're kept.

It's a guarantee. A promise. The Witch'll see you to the other side; your souls're in good hands. Dr. Death Defying - you only know him through the avenue of Party Poison. But they trust him like they trust their crew, which is more than good enough for you. So when the scarecrows ghost you, when the whitejackets crowd you out, when you die gagging on blood and plasma and the necrotized blowback of your own blackened lungs, you won't gotta worry about BL/ind locking you down behind a draculoid mask.

It's the best guarantee anybody could give you.

Poison drives. The Trans Am is, for the first time in a long, long while, utterly silent. No one blasts loud music from the windows, no one bitches good-naturedly at anyone else, but most glaring of all is the absence of the Girl, who'd ordinarily be sandwiched between you and Jet in the backseat.

Jet has an eyepatch now. You dunno where he got it exactly. Probably Show Pony. He keeps brushing hair outta his face, tucking it behind his ear, in a motion that seems reflexive more than anything else; he don't have a right eye for it to hang in front of anymore.

You're cutting through an underpass, a tunnel that only scarecrows use. You know exactly whose architectural city specs they're using to sneak a way into the city. (Did GoGo know what they'd be used for?) BLi won't be expecting you to come at them like this, not when you broke into the city the first time all direct. 

You're screwing over whoever else might make take the same route down the line. You're plugging a hole in BL/ind security. Hamstringing the future fight.

It's worth it.

For her, it's all worth it.

There's a picture of her taped to the dash. A rectangular polaroid, snapped by a junkpunk with a working camera in exchange for a fistful of carbons.

You race through to the city. Whitejackets wait at the booths, scrambling outta their seats to pick up their guns before you crash through the barricades and ghost them on the spot. They weren't expecting you to come from this angle, so there's that point in your favor. After all this, you can still manage to surprise them.

Eventually, someone hits an alarm. Shrilling klaxons, blinking lights, and now your entrance is a little more on the level you might've figured it'd be at. Now everybody knows you're coming. They're gonna be waiting to try and ghost you first, before you can ghost them.

_Let them._

Poison don't stop for nothing. You all know how this is gonna end.

The Trans Am screeches to a stop, tires skidding over asphalt. You pile out, Poison at the head. There's a faint drizzle hissing on the hood of the car, heat still leaking off it as the motor cools. City weather control must be out.

Every time you think you'll never end up back here, something proves you wrong.

You was born here. Lived here. Grew up here, in the gutters of Bat City. 

You'll die here too. Always figured it'd be in the heat and sun, you shaking off the rind of reddish clay-dust stuck to the bottom of your boots, laughing with dynamite sticks in both hands, grinning static and desolation. There's none of that now. No smiles, no laughter.

Just the Fabulous Killjoys storming Battery City in search of the one thing in your lives that matters more than anything.

More whitejackets at the entrance. The fact that the defenses've been packed so tight's a good sign - means you're headed in the right direction. They stream out, load up behind barricades. Jet's hand might not be as steady and his aim might not be as true but all four of you cut them down faster than they can get their rayguns on you. You leave the exterminators hemorrhaging smoke into the mist and petrichor waiting outside the Battery Towers.

Poison still leads. They lead like they know exactly where they're going. The rest of you follow into a maze of white walls, pristine angles. Everything's so _nice_ and _careful_ here, held in perfect symmetry and monochromaticism.

_C'mon, c'mon, where is she._

You turn corners. You spot cameras mounted on the walls. They're keeping eyes on you. Every second you burn without finding your Girl's another second that the BL/ind'll have a chance to retaliate first. Not about to let that happen. Not for a fucking _second._

But at the head is Party Poison. And Party Poison, they do the fucking impossible on the regular and they do it like it's standard. They navigate this mazelike building, they find their way to the S/C/A/R/E/C/R/O/W center nestled in the midst of it. You all raise your zaps and you blow away every drac that gets up to stand in your way. You waste them 'till they're smoking meat and burning latex. And then, in the center of the room -

You see her.

Poison drops to their knees at once, wraps her up in their arms, and she clings to them like they're her lifeline. They hold her tighter than you've ever seen them hold anything. You and Jet and Kobra stand sentinel the hallways, lit up by strobing emergency lights, waiting for more of the BL/ind to come pouring after you.

You don't have long.

"Hey, Girlie." You rub the top of her head when you start moving for the building exit and she grabs your hand, clutches it tight. Like she's scared you'll disappear if she lets go.

Feels impossible that there's any part of your heart left to break. Guess you was wrong there. 

One way or another, you're gonna leave her. Gonna leave her somewhere you can't follow. She's gonna live through this, but the rest of you? You know where your stories are gonna end. You all know it's impossible that you're gonna make it out to the other side. Not gonna make it outta here, not a second time. You don't got time for anything. No time for goodbyes, no time for anything but a squeeze of her hand. You wanna grab her, hold her tight, hug her so that you never gotta worry about anyone coming near her again. She's your Girl. She's your firecracker, your atom bomb, your _cielito,_ your pint-sized detonator. 

And she's gonna have to make her way in this world without you. Alone.

Just gotta hope to god that she closes her eyes when it happens. That she always remembers you alive and laughing, and not bleeding and dying on the floor.

She knows the way out. Smart Girl like her, she memorized the route, knows the way to the building's exit. She leads you right up 'till you make it to the building lobby.

Then the elevator doors slide open with a pneumatic hiss, and the dracs come spilling after you.

Got no time for laughter. Got no time for anything but shooting down the fucking pigs that wanna waste you and take the Girl. 

'Cause they're not taking her. 

They're not fucking taking her back.

The floor-to-ceiling glass windows in the building lobby're in sight when they catch up with you. At your backs -

_Korse._

He's unmistakable. He mows forward, a contingent of dracs at his back. More whitejackets in the lobby. The pigs've gotta be more careful about their shots than any of you. They don't wanna dust the Girl, see. But they got no qualms cutting down the Fabulous Four so _you need to move._ You gotta move now or it'll all be for nothing. _Move or you're dead._ Ain't you dead anyway?

You're already dead. You was dead the moment you set foot in this city to rescue a Girl you knew nothing about.

_Move._

Got no cover. Lasers scorch the air, fill your lungs with the stink of ozone. Somehow you're still standing, still shooting. They're really flurrying at you, around you, in every goddamn direction. _Move, move, move._ Kobra and Poison, briefly back to back, cutting down whitejackets fast as they can manage it. The Girl at the center of the room, hands over her ears. She don't look even a little bit troubled. Why should she? There's no question to her that you'll be getting her outta here.

And you will. Just - y'know, not the way she thinks you are.

Poison and Kobra're shooting in place and Jet's covering their exit. You and him make for the doors. He grabs a drac, blasts it in the gut, lets it fall limp to the ground with barely a break in his stride.

You don't catch the moment it happens but you see Jet pull away, making his way _back_ for Poison and you look up in time to see what comes right after: Poison breathing heavy, a draculoid mask clenched in one hand. They stare numbly downward and you catch the empty-eyed body that's robbed them of all their spark and fire.

It's the same reason you didn't wanna be the one shooting when you broke into the city to get the Girl in the first damn place. Only a matter of time before one of your bolts found some poor bastard you once knew, a friend or enemy or ally who's been dracked and turned into a bleached-white parody of what they were. Who knows how many times it's happened - how many times you've ghosted someone who used to be a real _person_ underneath that latex cage?

Benzo Mori looks wrong wrapped up in white, his skin ashen, his hair dark. Plain to see he died quick.

Assuming he died at all. What was it Cherri said?

_They're not gone. Not until they're dead._

What the fuck's that supposed to mean, anyway?

There's a sickening, leaden lump in your stomach that means you kinda know already.

Poison's breathing heavy. Trying to recover, trying to keep shooting, but it's shaken them and everybody can see it. Kobra shouts something, tells them _keep moving._ The mask falls from their shaking fingers and they reach down to pick it up again.

Benzo, dead on the ground. Poison, trying to keep shooting, breathing hard, their eyes blown too wide open and their movements too jerky. They're off balance.

 _C'mon, c'mon._ Don't stop now. _Keep running._

That's when Korse reaches them.

You watch Jet make the conscious choice, the decision over whether to run for Poison or run for the Girl. He picks the Girl. He runs for her and you're at his back in half a second. It all flurries past in a white-limned blur. Korse, one hand pinning Poison in place. Poison, against the wall, the muzzle of Korse's gun jammed under their chin. Kobra, his expression knotted up in a look of absolute fury that looks wrong on him 'cause you never once seen him like that. Kobra's anger's steadfast, it's a low-grade constant burn that clips out cold. It's not _this_ \- this shouting, incandescent, nuclear thing that blisters the fucking air.

 _Move,_ you urge them both silently. But Poison ain't moving. They ain't fighting. They let Korse trap them against the wall and they look _scared_ and _Party Poison never looks scared._

You're covering the door. You're too far away, but Kobra's making for the pair of them, charging for Korse even as the high-pitched buzz of a laser blast ignites the underside of Party Poison's chin and your heart stops.

They slide down the length of wall slowly, leaving a dark smear of red behind them as they go. Their eyes half-shut, the skin of their neck and chin blistered raw from the close-proximity raygun fire, one hand outstretched as if they might be able to make contact with the Girl who begins _screaming_ the second it happens.

You think - you think maybe they say something. 

Whatever it is, you never hear it. Not over the shriek of gunfire, the Girl screaming, Kobra's wordless anguish. Party Poison slumps against the wall, head tipped forward.

How many times you seen people get ghosted? How many fucking times? Why should this be _different,_ why should it grab at the strands in your heart and _pull,_ why should it feel like some part of your soul's been ripped the fuck away? You can't feel the smile eating at the sides of your face 'cause Jet's grabbed the Girl by the hand and propels her toward the door, the exit that you're covering and that you can't _stop covering_ even if just about every part of you wants to break position and tear for the body lying steaming on the floor.

Korse stands, briefly frozen in his moment of triumph as Poison lies there immobile and smoking faintly. Then he whips around, his gun snapping up, and he unleashes bolt after bolt of white-hot plasma, nails Kobra in the shoulder, the gut, the chest. The Kid goes down crooked, still firing streaks of green into the air. You can't see his face. You think maybe he died with his teeth still bared in that snarl.

The Girl's standing without cover, and Jet can't close the gap between himself and her fast enough. Falls to you to charge for her, grab her by the hand. Her pulse is rabbit-quick and thready. Her eyes are wet. She gasps a little when you tug her along, through the kaleidoscope of laser bolts that haven't by some miracle fried you alive.

You don't have fucking time for it - to let the grief swallow you whole, to let the rot-taste of the Kobra Kid's death boil, gaseous and all-consuming, and rip you apart while you still have work to do.

The pair of them were the first people to take everything you had and not balk from it, not step the fuck away. It's a hot-iron cling to the roof of your mouth. Poison pulling you forward, rubbing the back of your head in a weird half-hug while they laughed scratchily. The Kobra Kid letting you sob into his front while the radio vomited static and you wept like a fucking child. The four of you shooting cans off the Trans Am, breaking into Bat City. The five of you spraypainting your symbols on walls, stealing into concerts, and running, always _running_ with the heat at your backs and the music in your souls. Laughter and sunshine and dog food dinner and nail polish and static and Party Poison's eyes boring into yours and Jet Star's tweak of a half-smile and Kobra Kid punching you light on the shoulder and the Girl, always the Girl, her hands tangling into your matted hair and her arms around your shoulders when you let her climb onto your back and her high-pitched giggle in your ears.

You usher her along, one hand to the small of her back. She runs even if she's trying not to sob. Jet leads her out into the open air, outside the building. He turns, reaching for her. 

Pigs're still at your back. They don't wanna shoot the Girl, but they're gonna sweep over her and Jet both in an instant.

You been running your whole life. Ran away from home, ran away from re-education, played hooky 'till they shut you back up in re-education, bolted clean outta the Bat when you crossed the city line. You been running from whitejackets, running from pigs, running from scarecrows, running from other Zone-rats and killjoys and DJs and everyone who ever looked at you wrong, which were just about everyone. You been running from other gangs, running from your nightmares, running from your old man. You was a killjoy by virtue of running, of running hard and fast and never stopping. _Keep running. Keep running._ And don't ever stop.

Jet's eye meets yours as you catch the clear plastic of the door and shut it behind him and the Girl.

For once in your life, you stop running. If there's one person worth standing your ground for, it's her. If there's one person that this, all of this, is _worth_ \- it's her. Maybe you ain't going out with a _boom_ but you're going out with a wolf-sneer curling fresh beads of blood over your lips and the twin electric bellows of your lungs going doubletime and the cyanide tang of stale fear in your guts. You're going out _fucking_ the BL/ind for ruining your life and the lives of every person you've ever _met,_ and you might not burn in the heat of a dynamite gust but you'll sear your legacy into the white-tinged foundation of BLi itself just the same. _You'll fucking detonate in the only way that matters._

The Girl immediately turns back for you. Jet catches her hand, tugs her away. She screams your name, once.

You don't look back.

You breathe out and face the throng.

There's way too fucking many of them but you don't quit firing. Your battery's fried, chiming low as you shoot bolt after amber-colored bolt, picking down a whitejacket there, a drac there, another, another, another. Every second that you can keep them from crashing through those doors and firing on Jet and the Girl's a moment that's worth this. You don't look at Poison, ghosted against the wall. You don't look at Kobra, curled over and dead-still on the floor. You don't want your last memories of them to be their empty bodies, their souls already long gone.

The Witch will see them safe to wherever they're going next. Dr. D's got their masks. They'll be safe. They'll be fine. They'll - 

Lightning slams into your shoulder, your bad shoulder, your left one. The white phosphorous clench of your nerves burning in response shorts everything out for a second, cuts the sound into a muted roar. You're down one hand but you don't quit shooting, _come on you motherfuckers just fucking try it,_ not 'till the next bolt punches into the left side of your throat and clavicle, incinerating your trachea and ripping into the subclavian artery and reducing it to smoke and char.

Your eyes are already shut by the time you hit the ground. The arduous judder of your heart has already relaxed into a tin-rattle throb when everything starts going shaky.

Last thing you see's a fuzzed-out white square of ceiling, the sizzle of your own cooked flesh clinging to your nostrils.

The scar carved into one side of your mouth twists your expression into a perpetual smile when your breath stops and the ringing in your ears goes silent.

All you got's the hope that you bought Jet enough time to get the Girl home free. That the Doc and his entourage came through and got her outta the city. That maybe that it were even enough for Jet to make it out too. That the Girl, when she grows up, grows up to unmake BLi piece by piece and that she lives forever in the sun and freedom of the hot breath of the desert. That she remembers your life and your love and your laughter, and not the sacrifice you made to keep her breathing.

But when've you ever been the type to hope for miracles?

**\--**

**if we could light up the room with pain,  
we'd be such a glorious fire.**

**\--**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So ends the story of Fun Ghoul. I hope you all enjoyed it, or at the very least found it to be an interesting read. Digging into this guy's mindset was not always pleasant, but it was always a hell of a ride.
>
>> **Author's Notes:**
>> 
>> 1\. As ever, this work contains a plethora of references. You may note a shoutout to Robert Frost's "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening." The title of this chapter comes from the illustrious writings of Pete Wentz, and I'm sure you'll find a couple other shoutouts to Fall Out Boy tracks in here that I've unintentionally sprinkeld throughout. The poems between the linebreaks are, in order: "January" by S. Mardon, "I Remember Again" by Venetta Octavia, and an excerpt from "Lashed to the Helm, All Stiff and Stark" by Ada Limón.
>> 
>> 2\. A reference for Ghoul's final tattoo can be found [here](https://i.imgur.com/wLlF6zK.png). I'm not terribly good at tattoos, as I've said, but I did want to try to chart each one to the best of my ability.
>> 
>> 3\. Again, DIY tattooing and medical procedures are never recommended, particularly now. Please do not attempt any of the procedures detailed in this chapter.
> 
> It may take me a while to get the next installment of this series out. I've got quite a bit of IRL shit piling up and while I don't intend for that affect my writing, realistically I'm sure that it already has. I apologize in advance for any delays!
> 
> You're always free to poke me over at my [writing tumblr](https://graffitibible.tumblr.com/), though I'm not very good at maintaining it. I'm easier to reach here or on Discord, tbh.


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